Jen's Pen

Report from the Constitutional Convention

2010-12-06T23:25:00.000-08:00

Letter from John DeWitt, Esq., Delegate from Duchess County, New York, to James Terryton, dated August 14, 1788.

"My Dear Friend James,

I sincerely hope that this letter finds you in well recovered Health; and that all vestiges of your late Affliction are, by now, completely eradicated. News of your recovery was greeted with great joy amongst your many friends, and we all agreed that you should be made aware of the most recent events. Indeed, much has occurred in which we feel sure you will be keenly interested. Before proceeding further, allow me to forward the heartiest best wishes of our mutual friends: the Honorable Governor Clinton and the Honorable Metacom Smith. These both wish you a happy and expedient recovery, as, of course, do I myself. Please forward to your esteemed Wife, Rachel, greetings of the highest regard from my dear Abigail and myself, who are both, by the grace of God, prospering in the best of Health.

Without further ado, allow me to proceed to the matters of import. As you are aware, a meeting was called by certain members of the government to reconsider the Articles of Confederation. The weakness of this document was apparent to all; some stronger measures needed to be put in place. I journeyed myself to Philadelphia along with Mr. Metacom Smith, to watch and follow the proceedings as closely as possible. (In passing, I must tell you that the little mare of your Father’s stock is as good a piece of horseflesh as I’ve ever ridden. I thoroughly tried out her paces on the trip down, and she rides as smoothly as a Narragansett, and could outpace Smith’s gelding in the blink of an eye.)

When we arrived in Philadelphia, the whole city seemed to be in a state of excitement, even the lowest and rudest aware that important happenings were afoot. Although Smith and I weren’t delegates, and so could not vote, Smith made very well sure that the delegates were aware of his opinion. Indeed, I enjoyed watching our energetic friend as he worked his way behind the scenes. As you know James, and as we were all in previous agreement, we believed that the States should maintain power over the centralized government. These Federalists seem not to understand the danger of overly powerful central government, despite recent events. In any case, there was a great deal of dissension in the Convention, and all plans put forth were debated rigorously. One particularly appalling plan was put forth by that sly fox, Alexander Hamilton. I have had a low opinion of that man for many years, as you well know, but now I have even less regard for him. Indeed, that he should claim to represent our fair State is insulting in the extreme! Hamilton’s plan was odious to many of the delegates, so much so that it was defeated out of hand.

One issue of great importance and debate was the power of the Executive (by this I mean a President - a role similar to the old Roman consuls, if you remember your Livy). The plan settled upon has only one executive, however, called a President. I doubt seriously the wisdom of having only one executive officer; I think perhaps two or even three would have been wiser. The idea of a single man in the executive feels too much like the monarchy we have so recently left. The mode for electing this President is a rather round about process involving Electors; but the details of this, my dear James, you must ask Smith, for I did not follow the debate, being in opposition of the single executive altogether. Also, I had by this time grown weary of the arduous debating and the hot, dirty city. You know I’ve always been one to prefer the country life, James, and the thought of the cool lake breezes drew me home. Smith stayed on however; while I dropped into our local tavern (you remember Sam’s New York, of course, James?) to get the news. The rest of the events I outline to you are as reported by Smith.

To continue with the Convention: another great issue debated was the question of representation regarding slaves in the Southern States. These States wanted to count slaves as persons to be represented, which is in my estimation, ridiculous. The slaves are most certainly not represented in Congress by any number of Representatives; the whole idea is farcical. In the end, it was decided to continue the absurd practice of three-fifths of the slave population counted for representation. Smith agreed with me that this is indeed absurd; but ’twas the only compromise that could be reached.

The next issue of importance (although indeed there were many more, and to write them all would be the work of an epic) was the Bill of Rights question, an issue very close to my heart, and I know, Friend James, to yours also. As such, I was disappointed; for Smith said the delegates at the Convention were afraid to touch the issue; fearing a disintegration of the Convention completely. The Convention did close without afixing a Bill of Rights, or indeed any enumeration of the Rights of the Citizen. As such, most of us here in New York were opposed to ratification. However, we were assured by Mr. Madison of Virginia that a Bill of Rights would be the first work of the new Government. Still, however, we hesitated; as you can imagine, James, we did not want to sign over power to any new Government that did not assure the Rights of Man that we have so recently, and so dearly, fought to assure. The debate was intense, and I grieve to say, rancorous at times. Old insults and family scandals were dredged up with such vindictiveness as to be truly shocking. Our tavern, Sam’s, was an exceedingly contentious place for a time, and only grew more so as many other States ratified the new Constitution.

Thus, it came to such a pass that the new Constitution was soon to have enough States to ratify, and our State would have been left out in a peculiar state of limbo. The specter of this prospect was enough to spur us all into action, especially our friend, Smith. He decided that we had to ratify, or be left out in the cold; and so he went around to the Delegates and convinced them. A Bill of Rights being promised helped to assuage our fears and doubts, and Smith almost single-handedly turned the tide of opinion. (In passing, I might add that in so doing, Smith accomplished in a week what Alexander Hamilton had been attempting for months).

Thus, my dear James, our State of New York ratified the new Constitution on July 26th, the year of our Lord 1788, at Convention in Poughkeepsie. In our declaration of ratification, we included our own enumeration of the Rights of Man. I was myself a signer for Duchess County. I admit that I have doubts about our new Government, such as I have expressed here; however, I am content to sit back for a time and see what develops. The first election went off quite smoothly, and the outcome was quite obvious from the start. General George Washington, the Virginian, has been elected President. I believe him to be a good man, James, and I think the Government will do reasonably well in his hands. I fear, however, that the men who seek this office in the future may not be such - but we shall see.

Well, James, that closes my story up to this point, and now you know what events have occurred and where they stand presently. I hope this letter has fulfilled its other object: that it has given you some pleasant reading and mental diversion as you plod the sometimes weary road to recovery. I hope, and indeed, I am sure that soon we will meet again, hale and hearty as of old, and discuss all our topics of mutual interest. I look forward to that day, and until then, my dear Friend, I remain

Your Sincerest Friend,

John DeWitt

"

The Judge, the Sheriff, and the Advocate

2010-07-27T13:53:00.000-07:00

Iowa Case Demonstrates the Difference Between Oath-Takers and Oath-Keepers

Paul Dorr, a citizen in Osceola County, Iowa, has some views that other people might find offensive. He is an anti-abortion advocate who home-schools his eleven children. He writes letters to the editor and protests outside of abortion clinics for the rights of the unborn.

But when Dorr was denied a concealed carry permit by Osceola County Sheriff Douglas Weber, Dorr filed a protest for his own rights. On Dorr’s CCW application, submitted in July 2007, Weber wrote: “Concern for Public. Don’t trust him.” The application was denied. In 2008, Dorr’s son Alexander applied for a CCW permit that was also refused. Sheriff Weber then informed Dorr that he would likewise deny any future applications.

Testimony before the court revealed why Dorr was refused the CCW permit: because the Sheriff thought Dorr was “weird.” Sheriff Weber testified that after Dorr protested some actions of the county government, Dorr wasn’t popular in certain circles. “People started talking about it saying things like, ‘Oh, that guy’s a nut job. Oh, that guy’s whacko,’” Weber said.

In this testimony, Sheriff Weber demonstrated his complete lack of education about the Constitutional rights guaranteed to every citizen by the Bill of Rights. The United States is a Republic because the rights of the minority - perhaps even an unpopular minority - are protected. If only the rights of the majority are protected, then dissenting voices will not be heard, or even raised. Sheriff Weber has apparently forgotten his Oath to the Constitution.

Thankfully, Judge Mark W. Bennett upheld his Oath and ruled in Mr. Dorr’s favor, saying that Dorr’s rights had been grossly violated by Sheriff Weber. “The court finds a tsunami, a maelstrom, an avalanche, of direct, uncontroverted evidence in Sheriff Weber’s own testimony to conclude beyond all doubt that he unquestionably violated the First Amendment rights of … Paul Dorr,” wrote U.S. District Court Judge Mark W. Bennett of the Northern District of Iowa. “Dorr was denied a permit precisely because Sheriff Weber believed that his free speech rights offended the majority of voters in Osceola County,” Bennett wrote.

In his ruling, Judge Bennett ordered the Osceola County Sheriff’s office to immediately issue Paul Dorr a CCW permit. Additionally, the Judge ordered Sheriff Weber to successfully complete a court-approved educational course about the Constitution and the First Amendment.

The judge continued: “This is a great reminder that the First Amendment protects the sole individual who may be a gadfly, kook, weirdo, nut job, whacko, and spook, with the same force of protection as folks with more majoritarian and popular views.”

“In denying (Dorr) a concealed weapons permit, Sheriff Weber single-handedly hijacked the First Amendment and nullified its freedoms and protections,” Bennett wrote.

Perhaps the mandatory Constitutional education for Sheriff Weber will bring this message home. Perhaps it will inspire him to emulate Judge Bennett’s respect and understanding of the U.S. Constitution. Perhaps he will become an Oath Keeper, not simply an oath-taker.

Link to story:
http://www.theoathkeepernews.com/news/2010/07/17/judge-blasts-iowa-sheriff-for-denying-gun-permit-to-man-considered-‘weird’/

The Battle of Monmouth: June 28, 1778

2010-07-03T11:43:00.000-07:00

General Charles Lee was standing alone on the morning of June 28th, 1778. The air, even before dawn, was humid and hot. Summer had come early to Pennsylvania that year, and the armies struggling against each other in the American colonies had a vicious, unseen enemy in the oppressive, moist heat. In their thick uniforms, carrying heavy loads, the soldiers were miserable.

The Americans were in pursuit of a supply train of British General Sir Henry Clinton’s. The British wagons and supplies were strung out over twelve miles of sandy road, as they moved their headquarters from Philadelphia to New York. General Washington had wanted to attack the supply train outright, but his generals urged caution. Washington compromised by sending five thousand soldiers out to the attack, and keeping the main body of troops behind in reserve. General Lee, a vocal critic of his commanding officer, had at first refused to lead the attack; but when he saw the number of troops committed by Washington, he changed his mind and demanded to be the commander of the expedition.

As Lee stood on the hill that morning in June, his head bowed in thought and his hands clasped behind him, his officers wondered uneasily what he was thinking. Lee was a man with a strange past. He was Irish-born, and had served in the British army since he was twelve years old. He had fought as a soldier of fortune on numerous battlefields of Europe. After coming to the colonies, he married the daughter of a Seneca chief, and earned the name “Boiling Water” from the Seneca tribe, in recognition of his hot temper. By all reports he was a vain, vulgar, unlikeable man, slovenly in his dress, coarse and rude in speech, with a very high opinion of himself.

Lee felt that he should have been given the position of Commander-In-Chief when war broke out in the colonies. But when the position was given to George Washington instead, who was nearly the complete opposite of Lee in every conceivable way, Lee was bitter. He and Washington had numerous disagreements, and Lee was well known to have contempt for his superior officer. However, Lee did not have any great battlefield glory to cover his other shortcomings; on the contrary, he had been ignominiously captured by the British in 1776 at a public house, where he had been sleeping off a night’s carouse.

The army was rife with rumors, and some of those rumors questioned Lee’s dedication to the cause of American freedom. Everyone knew he wasn’t really an American. Everyone knew that he had only settled in Virginia after King George refused to give him the promotion he wanted. That he was contemptuous of Washington was an unspoken, but well-known fact. Rumor had it that he had drawn up an attack on the American forces when he was captured by the British, and that he had been well-treated as a result. Some men thought he should never had been given another command after he was swapped back to the Americans in a prisoner exchange.

The command given to him at Monmouth was Lee’s big chance. He could prove all his doubters wrong and set the rumors to rest. He had a chance to distinguish himself, and show the world that he should have been given command of the Continental Army. Or perhaps he could punish the side that had not shown him the respect he felt he deserved... as Charles Lee lifted his head to see the first gleams of dawn on that sweltering June morning, his face was set in an ugly scowl. Surrounded, as always, by a pack of hunting hounds, he yelled at an orderly for his horse. The time for thought was over. The day that would settle Charles Lee’s destiny had begun.

. . . . . . . . . .

Marquis de Lafayette was worried. The young, idealistic Frenchman, who had already proved his prowess on the battlefield at Brandywine, pulled the reins on his horse and looked around him. What he saw made the frown deepen on his face. The attack on the British supply train had been mismanaged from the start. General Lee had not properly reconnoitered before the attack; his orders were sporadic or non-existent, and confusion among the troops had lost the Americans the element of surprise. The crack troops under command of General Cornwallis had pressed their advantage. The American commanding officers, including Lafayette, had not been given any plan of attack by General Lee; instead they were told to await orders.

But Lafayette realized that things were not going well. The day had become blistering hot, and the battlefield was dim from smoke from the artillery and muskets. The Americans and British were exchanging fire steadily, but even as Lafayette wiped the sweat from his eyes and reached for his water bottle, the American line began crumbling before his eyes. The most advanced troops were in retreat. Lafayette dropped his water bottle and spurred his horse forward towards the men of his command. But the retreat that had begun as a few men had turned into a flood of soldiers turning and running in panic. The American discipline had seemingly evaporated into thin air, and the British troops could see it. They pushed forward even harder, the officers urging the dirty men, dripping with sweat and grimy with smoke and dust, to fire more rapidly, and to advance.

Suddenly, from the woods dim with smoke behind the American lines, a magnificent white horse cantered into view. In the saddle was General George Washington, his uniform impeccable as always, but his face showing increasing distress as he realized the situation. His jaw set hard and his usually calm blue eyes kindled as he saw American soldiers running from the enemy. He reigned up next to General Lee and tersely demanded:

“Why are the troops in retreat, sir? Why?”

Lee’s face turned red. He felt insulted. “Sir! Is this question in order, indeed, I...”

Washington’s face was hard. “I repeat, sir, why are the troops in retreat? What is the situation?”

“I - well - my orders were not followed, sir!” Lee shouted back, his ever-ready temper gaining control of him. “You know these men don’t know how to follow orders! These men-” he gestured furiously around him - “they aren’t able to stand and fight against the British!”

Washington looked at Lee with a fury on his face that none of the men had seen before. “Sir, they are able,” he growled at Lee, “and by God, they shall do it!”

He wheeled his horse about and left Lee gaping after him. Washington rode to the rear and began issuing orders to take up defensive positions. He rode back to the front lines, shouting orders and seeing they were followed, heedless of cannon fire and the ceaseless small arms sniping from the British. He ordered fresh troops up to the front and ordered the exhausted men to the rear, to rest. Urging his horse mercilessly, he set up a strong defensive line facing the British.

The retreat seemed to have stopped as suddenly as it started. The Continental army, that had almost dissolved into a panicked rabble, was once again a fighting force, returning fire and holding the line. They held the line through the rest of the hot, miserable day. The battle ended in a draw. At dusk, the armies were still facing each other and the Americans were still firing from the positions ordered by General Washington. As darkness fell, the British abandoned the field and their wounded, and stole silently through the woods to the forgotten supply train.

. . . . . . . . .

The Battle of Monmouth did not decide the victors of the war, but it did show that the Americans could indeed stand and fight against the British, as Washington believed they could. General Lee was later court-martialed and removed from command. To this day, it is not clear if his actions during the Battle of Monmouth were the result of incompetence or treachery. As his rival, George Washington, went on to be the first president of the new Republic, Charles Lee died in poverty in a saloon in 1782.

Lexington and Concord: April 19, 1775

2010-05-08T18:03:00.000-07:00

The British regulars were having a rough morning. They had been roused out of bed late last night - the night of April 18th - and had spent hours standing in formation along the narrow streets of Boston. Then they had been piled onto shallow barges so overloaded that there wasn’t room to sit down. The barges ferried them across the water from Boston near to Cambridge, where they disembarked into chilly waist-deep water. It was barely midnight when the first wet, grumbling troops waded ashore, early on the morning of April 19th, 1775.

The British desperately wanted to surprise the Americans and capture the weapons that were stockpiled in the town of Concord, and this late-night troop movement was a key part of their strategy. Under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith, there were over seven hundred regular troops ferried out of Boston that morning. The regular troops were supported by about a thousand grenadiers, flankers, and reconnaissance troops. On their way to Concord, the British also planned to stop in at Lexington and arrest John Hancock and Sam Adams, two key leaders of the American revolt who had recently moved out of Boston for safety.

But the British did not know that word of their approach was spreading through the Massachusetts countryside before they had even crossed the water. Paul Revere, one of the few patriot leaders still in Boston, had rowed across the Charles River under the guns of the HMS Somerset late on the 18th. Once ashore in Charlestown, he mounted a waiting horse and rode off to warn the communities north of Boston of the British approach. Behind him, glowing in the steeple of the Old North Church, was Revere’s back-up plan: two lanterns were glimmering through the still, silent night, a signal to Charlestown that the British were coming by sea. Paul Revere was not the only man who braved the teeth of the British to spread the alarm that night. Billy Dawes, disguised as a drunken farmer, had fooled the British guards blockading the only road out of Boston, and headed south to spread the alarm.

Revere stopped at Lexington to make sure that Hancock and Adams had got the warning. They had, and were already on their way out of town, but the anxious men spoke late into the night with the militia leaders from Lexington and surrounding towns. There were too many British troops on the march to be only intent on arresting two men. The weapons at Concord had to be the main aim of this attack. The word was sent out around the countryside, and the system of “alarm and muster”, used in the colonies since before the French and Indian war, came to life. Cannons boomed, bells rang, bonfires were lit and trumpets were blown to spread the alarm. Express riders headed off in all directions to rouse the militia. British officers, still struggling to get all their men ashore through the soggy marshes, heard the commotion and realized that the element of surprise had been lost.

From across the countryside, men began to answer the alarm. The militia of Lexington, commanded by Captain John Parker, had gathered before the sun was up. No British had arrived yet, so the men were told to wait but be ready at a moment’s notice.

It was a beautiful spring morning that day in Massachusetts. The grass on the sloping countryside was fresh and green, the fruit trees were covered in snowy white blossoms, and the birds were madly trilling and singing in the tree-tops. The air was cool and damp, seasoned with the unmistakable salty tang of the Atlantic. And in the pretty little town of Lexington, in the faint half-light before dawn, a few dozen men were milling around the green, waiting. They were farmers, most of them. Most held muskets; some held blunderbusses or hunting rifles. Their faces were drawn and anxious as they waited. Suddenly, word came. “They’re coming! They’re coming!” The whispers turned into yells as townspeople rushed around in near panic. Women bundled their children inside. Doors and windows were slammed shut and bolted. Others stood as spectators along the road and lines of houses, wondering what was going to happen.

And on the green, the men under command of Captain Parker lined up, their weapons gripped firm and ready. And they waited. Just as the first rays of dawn rose out of the sea to the east and spread their rosy light across the green of Lexington, the measured tramp of marching boots could be heard. The British rounded a corner, and suddenly the town seemed filled with troops in scarlet uniforms. The advance force of British, led by Major Pitcairn, numbered about three hundred men, with over a thousand more behind them. Parker immediately realized that his forces were overwhelmingly outnumbered, but still the Americans held their ground. The British had momentarily paused when they saw the Americans waiting for them, but now they suddenly surged forward. Major Pitcairn rode ahead on his charger. “Disperse ye rebels!” he shouted at the colonists. “Disperse and lay down your arms!”

Captain Parker realized that his troops stood no chance against such a large force. He ordered his men to disperse. The colonists began to move off the common slowly, and none of them laid down their arms. Suddenly, a shot rang out, ripping through the air. The British troops immediately fired a volley into the thin ranks of the colonists. Confusion filled the air as more shots were fired, British officers yelled at their troops, Americans yelled at the British, more shots were fired and the air filled with gun smoke. The Americans got off a few shots in response, but most of the militia headed for the safety of the woods. The British continued to fire, and then followed up their volleys with a bayonet charge. Captain Parker saw his cousin Jonas run through as he stood on Lexington Green.

It was all over very quickly. The militia had disappeared. The ten wounded and eight dead Americans were quickly dragged off the Green. The British officers marshaled their troops into formation and fired a victory volley before marching out of the town, continuing on their way to Concord. Behind them, the morning in Lexington seemed no longer beautiful. The birds had stopped singing and the bitter smell of gun smoke hung heavy in the air. The sky seemed to have darkened although the sun was still shining. In the houses of the town, the wounded were being tended and a woman’s weeping could already be heard.

News of the skirmish at Lexington spread rapidly to the surrounding villages. Many Americans were shocked that the British had fired on Americans, shocked that people had died, shocked that the war so long in coming had finally begun.

Six miles away at Concord, the militia leaders were getting confused reports. Colonel James Barrett heard that the British at Lexington had fired only with powder, while other reports said numerous Americans had been killed. Some said there were five hundred British, others said three thousand. So Colonel Barrett and his men waited to see what developed as more minutemen arrived, armed and ready.

They didn’t have too long to wait. When Colonel Barrett saw the size of the British force marching towards Concord, he decided to pull his three hundred men back across the Concord River. He knew what the British did not: that most of the weapons had already been removed from Concord and safely hidden away in other towns. As the militia pulled back, the British arrived at Concord and began their house-to-house search for weapons. About one hundred British grenadiers under the command of Captain Walter Laurie were stationed by the North Bridge, the bridge that separated the British and the now-occupied town of Concord from the militia that was growing in size by the minute.

The British found three massive twenty-four pounder cannons buried by Ephraim Jones’s tavern, as well as gun carriages and stored supplies. They smashed the gun trunnions, burned the gun carriages, and dumped nearly a hundred barrels of food and 550 pounds of musket balls into the mill pond. The fire that had been set to the gun carriages spread to a local meetinghouse, and a bucket brigade was hastily arranged.

Colonel Barrett and his forces saw the smoke and became increasingly anxious. The reports from Lexington were ominous; and realizing that his force of four hundred well outnumbered the British guarding the bridge, he decided to march into Concord. The militia was organized into a line two deep on the highway down to bridge. After further consultations with other militia leaders, the order was given to march down to Concord. The men’s weapons were loaded but they were ordered to not fire unless fired upon.

When the British saw the militia advancing, they began to take up defensive positions on the town side of the bridge. The British ranks were in confusion as their inexperienced commander gave poor orders and other officers tried to correct his mistake. The Minutemen marched steadily down the hill, and someone in the British ranks fired. Two more men fired and then an advance squadron let off a ragged volley, irregular pop-pop-pops that shattered the cool morning air.

The Americans had not yet fired a shot, although two men had been killed and four wounded in that opening volley. Finally an officer, Major Buttrick, gave the order. “Fire!” he yelled. “Fellow soldiers, fire!” The line of Americans pulled up and let loose a solid volley of shots that felled three British regulars and wounded a dozen more. The British fell back and the Americans rushed on across the bridge. The British, outnumbered, demoralized, and lacking effective leadership, fled into the safety of the town.

The situation turned into a standoff, with the Americans maintaining defensive positions around the town but not advancing any further, well aware of the much larger force occupying Concord. The British left Concord at about noon, ready for the sixteen mile march back to Charlestown. But they did not realize that as they dallied in Concord, the militia force was growing by the minute, waiting for the British to leave the safety of the town. The British were waiting for reinforcements from Earl Percy, but they were still miles away. Finally, around noon, the British decided to start the march back towards Boston. The minutemen watched in silence as the British troops formed up and began marching east. Soon all the militia had melted into the surrounding countryside, and the warm day seemed peaceful again under the sunshine.

But suddenly, the sound of a musket shot shattered the short-lived silence and a British regular dropped wounded in the ranks. More shots were fired and more British soldiers dropped where they stood. The British were furious. They were not used to warfare where they could not see their enemy. Indeed, they considered it a dishonorable way to fight. In European battles, the contending armies stood facing each other’s ranks and exchanged fire. However, the American militia leaders had no intention of subjecting their forces to the withering volleys the British could deal to their enemies. Instead, the Americans encircled the British in a “ring of fire”, keeping themselves hidden as much as possible while inflicting maximum damage on the British.
It was a new kind of warfare that the British were destined to learn all about during that long tramp back to Boston. Throughout the entire sixteen miles, the British were harried at every step by an enemy they could rarely see.

About five hundred militia men from Chelmsford had formed up in the woods and sniped at the British from Brooks Hill. More men from Bedford and Lincoln ambushed the British at a curve in the road that was surrounded by woods. About thirty British soldiers were killed and the British broke into a trot to escape.

Militia forces had risen to about two thousand by this time, and the long running battles between the British and the militiamen who seemed to be behind every tree were draining the British of ammunition. They were also becoming exhausted. The American forces were being constantly reinforced by new arrivals and different companies as the battle moved into new counties and townships. The situation for the British was growing desperate.

But fortunately for them, British reinforcements had arrived at Lexington, led by Earl Percy. Percy and his men were shocked to see their fellow British soldiers rushing to the safety of the town, looking anxiously over their shoulders and dragging their wounded. Percy’s reinforcements had arrived in the nick of time. He organized the retreat from there to Charlestown, keeping the American militia at bay as much as possible with cannon fire. All through that long afternoon, the battle continued with skirmishing along the road. When the British finally arrived at Charlestown, it was almost evening. They sent the wounded back across the water to Boston. Seventy British soldiers were killed that day, and almost two hundred were wounded. Over fifty were reported missing. For the colonials, about fifty were killed and forty wounded. As the British retreated into Boston to lick their wounds, the militia forces were close behind them. By the next morning, twenty thousand minutemen had surrounded the city, and the siege of Boston had started.

But something even bigger had started that day. The first shots of the American Revolution had been fired. The next eight years would be filled with bloodshed and turmoil throughout the British colonies in North America - colonies that, a little over a year after the revolution began, declared themselves to be the free and independent states of America. That beautiful spring day in Massachusetts had turned into a day that would be remembered for centuries to come, in the nation that was born out of that struggle for freedom.

Sources:
“The American Revolution- The Battles of Lexington and Concord” http://www.theamericanrevolution.org/battledetail.aspx?battle=1

“Department of Military Science- Battle of Lexington and Concord” http://www.wpi.edu/Academics/Depts/MilSci/Resources/lexcon.html

The Battle of the Alamo: March 6, 1836

2010-04-02T20:16:00.000-07:00

The morning was still dark, with barely a trace of red on the eastern horizon. The air was colder and damper than usual for east Texas in March. For the past twelve days, the roar of cannons had echoed through the adobe walls of the mission of San Antonio de Bexar, also called the Alamo. But this morning, all was quiet. A faint breeze was stirring, gently rustling through the mesquite grass and ruffling the placid waters of the pond behind the mission. The breeze chilled the men inside the Alamo. The few who slept stirred restlessly; the others, their faces weary and blackened by powder and dust, pulled their jackets closer for warmth.

The Alamo was an old mission made up of a convent and a rectangular courtyard surrounded by a crumbling adobe wall. It stood on a bluff overlooking the little town of San Antonio de Bexar. The San Antonio River fed the stream that wound around the Alamo and purled into the pond behind it. The Old San Antonio Road, one of the main routes in and out of Texas, was nearby. On that morning, about one hundred and eighty men were holed up inside the adobe walls, waiting. For the past twelve days they had been waiting for reinforcements from their fellow Texans, and waiting for what the Mexicans under the command of Generalissimo Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna would do next. The men inside the Alamo knew they were extremely outnumbered by the Mexicans. They knew they could not hold out without reinforcements. They knew they would be granted no quarter if they surrendered. They knew they must hold the Alamo, or die in the attempt.

All of Texas was in a state of upheaval. Throughout years of negotiations and compromises with the Mexican government over civil liberties, land ownership, tariffs, and other issues, Texas had been heading towards a revolution. In 1835, the first shots of the Texas Revolution had been fired in October at the battle of Gonzalez. A Convention was meeting at Washington-on-the-Brazos in March of 1836 even as the siege of the Alamo was underway, to discuss the future of Texas. The Convention had decided that there was no further recourse to the Mexican government; they had declared independence on March 2nd.

But Generalissimo Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna had arrived to put down the rebellion. He crossed the Rio Grande on February 15, with the intention of executing or exiling every Texan of Anglo ascent. Any Texan under arms would be considered a pirate and treated accordingly. When Santa Anna heard that a contingent of rebels were fortifying the old mission on the outskirts of San Antonio de Bexar, he decided to travel there with about two thousand of his troops. Although the mission itself held little military significance, Santa Anna decided he would make an example of the rebels there.

The Alamo was originally under command of Colonel John Neill, but he had been called home because of a family emergency on February 11th. Command of the Alamo was left to twenty-six year old Lt. Colonel William B. Travis and Colonel Jim Bowie. The two had worked out a compromise of joint command, where Bowie commanded the volunteers and Travis was in charge of the regular army troops. However, by the time the siege began, Bowie had fallen ill and left Travis in complete command. Frontiersman and former congressman Davy Crockett was also inside the Alamo with about a dozen of his men from Tennessee.

Santa Anna arrived at San Antonio de Bexar on February 23 and issued an ultimatum to the defenders of the Alamo. He demanded their surrender and declared that no prisoners would be taken in the event of resistance. Lt. Colonel Travis would not listen to talk of surrender; he answered this ultimatum with a cannon shot, and the siege of the Alamo began.

During the two weeks leading up to the siege, Travis had been sending letters pleading for reinforcements and equipment. On February 24th, the day after the siege began, Travis wrote a letter that he addressed “To the People of Texas and all Americans in the World” where he explained the situation at the Alamo. “I have sustained a continual bombardment and cannonade for twenty-four hours” he wrote, “and have not lost a man… I shall never surrender or retreat… I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism, of everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch… if this call is neglected I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due his honor and that of his country.” The appeal finished with the words “Victory or Death” underlined three times. The only response to his impassioned appeal was thirty-two volunteers from Gonzalez who arrived on March 1st.

On the cold morning of March 6, the Texans were hunkered down in their positions, still determined to hold on and wondering if help would ever come. What they did not know was that Santa Anna had ordered an all-out assault of the Alamo that day. Beyond the walls of the Alamo, out on the darkness, on that chilly, damp morning, thousands of Mexican troops were advancing silently towards the Alamo. Their boots were sinking slightly into in the boggy ground as they softly stepped through the curly mesquite grass. But these were battle-hardened troops and the discipline was absolute. Barely a sound was uttered as they advanced through the dark. Any noise they made might have been easily dismissed as the rustle of the breeze whispering across the prairie.

A man standing on the north rampart of the Alamo was gazing dreamily out into the dark. His outfit of head to toe buckskin, trimmed with fringe and topped off with a real coon-skin cap, proclaimed to the world that he was a frontiersman. In fact, he was from Tennessee, and as he leaned on his rifle and the brisk breeze fluttered the fringe on his jacket, he was remembering happier days. His friend Bill was snoring gently at his feet, and the man smiled to hear the sound. He thought of his wife and their log cabin in the Blue Mountains, and his children warm in their beds. He was almost asleep himself when suddenly he stiffened, and stood up as straight as the rifle he immediately slid ready into both hands. Had he seen something out there in the dark, or…?

A yell suddenly tore through the darkness. “Here they come!” A cannon roared, licking flame and sending a ball of death hurtling into the line of Mexicans. Suddenly everyone was awake, yelling at once. Mexican officers could be heard urging on their men “Adalante! Adalante!”

Rifles were pointed over the top of the fort as the first glimmers of sunrise reddened the eastern sky. Lt. Colonel Travis was at his post by the front wall immediately, somehow as neat and immaculate in his dress and manner as ever. The cannons were roaring continuously now, and furrows in the Mexican ranks could be seen where the murderous balls of lead had plowed through them. Above the thud and roar of the cannons was the continuous crack-crack-crack of rifle fire. The air was twanging with bullets around the defenders of the Alamo, and the sky was already darkened with bitter tasting gun smoke. The fighting went on, the officers shouting orders, the cannons bellowing death, the rifles spitting lead, the men of the Alamo still standing and the flag of Texas still whipping in the breeze. Suddenly, the attack was over – the Mexicans were falling back.

But none of the Americans were fooled- they knew the Mexicans would come again. And they did. After rapidly regrouping, the Mexicans were advancing across the prairie again, running full tilt this time, all the element of surprise lost. They ran into the same withering fire from the Alamo. The cannons were hot to the touch and the smoke from the guns was so thick the defenders could barely see from one side of the courtyard to the other. A hale, hearty man with twinkling blue eyes and a big laugh was encouraging his men on a section of the rampart near the church. The Tejanos called him “Don Benito” because he was always friendly, and always cheerful. The Texans called him Crockett, and even now his big smile was on his powder-blackened face.

The Mexicans’ second attack was not much more successful than their first. They still had not managed to breach any of the walls. But they had spotted a weak point. On the north side of the enclosure was a gap in the wall that had been closed with a tall fence of timber.

The Mexicans gathered their forces together and once again hurled themselves at the Alamo. Some of them were armed with ladders to mount the wall. The Americans beat them back again and again. Though dangerously low on ammunition, the cannons were still thudding and the rifles were cracking though the smoky haze. Then one Mexican gained the wall, then another, and then ten or twenty. Suddenly Mexican troops were pouring over the ramparts. The cannon fire was more sporadic now, and the combat had become brutal, hand to hand, vicious warfare. Lt. Colonel Travis, a pistol in one hand and his sword in the other, was one of the first officers to die there at the north wall. The flood of Mexicans increased and the tumult of yells and screams in English and Spanish filled the walls of the Alamo and blood ran in streams along the ramparts. More pistol shots, another cannon boomed, and still the defenders were fighting, desperate men, furious men, men taking their last breaths within the crumbling, blood-soaked walls of the Alamo.

Then, it was over. The Mexicans from either side of the Alamo met in the middle of the courtyard and realized they wore the same uniform. The cannons were silent; no more rifles were heard. The courtyard was filled with bodies of the dead and dying. The sun, which glowed an eerie orange as it peered down through the smoke onto the scene of slaughter, was not yet halfway to the zenith. It was not quite ten o’clock in the morning yet, but all the defenders of the Alamo, which that same sun had risen on less than five hours earlier, were dead. The siege of the Alamo was over.

. . . . . .

Over one hundred and eighty Americans died that day in the Alamo. Some eyewitness accounts stated that a few men survived the battle but were immediately executed. And there weren’t only Texans and Tejanos in the Battle of the Alamo; Americans from Tennessee, Kentucky, and New York stood and died with the Texans that day, as well as folks from South Carolina, Missouri, Virginia, and other states. A handful of women and children found hiding in the Alamo were granted safe passage. Casualties among Santa Anna’s troops were as high as 400-600 wounded and killed.

The sacrifice of the defenders of the Alamo was not in vain. Their story inspired and galvanized Texans in their fight for independence and freedom. “Remember the Alamo!” was the battle cry that rang out at the Battle of San Jacinto, where Texans led by Sam Houston defeated Santa Anna a little over a month after the fall of the Alamo.

Americans throughout the decades and of all generations have been inspired by the bravery and self-sacrifice of the men of the Alamo. Those men who died on March 6, 1836 at the Alamo have not been forgotten. The Alamo is still standing on the bluff overlooking San Antonio, and today is the most visited tourist site in the United States.

Sources:
“The Handbook of Texas Online” Texas State Historical Association http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/TT/qdt1.html, “The Alamo: Shrine of Texas Liberty” http://hotx.com/alamo/index.html, Texas State Library and Archives Commission http://www.tsl.state.tx.us/treasures/characters/index.html.

The Powder Alarm at North Bridge

2010-02-18T12:24:00.000-08:00

The British regulars were ready to march. Two hundred and forty troops under the command of Colonel Alexander Leslie had risen in the early morning hours of Sunday, February 26, 1775, and readied their muskets and bayonets. Every man’s uniform was spotless, with brass buttons sparkling and boots shiny black. They were under command of General Gage in Boston, where British troops had been quartered for nearly a year.

General Gage had been sent by King George after the Boston Tea Party to put down the rebellion. The port of Boston had been shut down and British troops had been sent in the thousands. But now it was nearly a year and a half since the Tea Party, and the rebellion had not been put down. On the contrary, it was stronger than ever. Britain’s Parliament had declared Massachusetts in a state of open rebellion earlier that month, on February 9th. Minutemen had been drilling on town commons for months. Paul Revere and his fellow patriots in Boston had established an elaborate network of spies to watch and report every move of the British. It was well known that General Gage was under pressure from the king to stop the “seditious” colonists, and that the British were preparing for action. Springtime, when armies maneuver more easily, was just around the corner, and tensions between the British and Americans were rising by the day.

General Gage had recently received some information that had him worried: David Mason, a veteran of the French and Indian Wars, had been commissioned as an artillery officer by the Massachusetts Committee of Safety. Mason had purchased seventeen brass cannon twelve-pounders from the French, and now he was having the cannons refitted and mounted on special wagons to increase their mobility.

It was this information that roused Colonel Leslie’s troops on that cold, damp Sunday morning. They were ordered to capture the cannon.

The troops of the 64th regiment were loaded onto ships at Castle William and sailed north to disembark at Marblehead. The date of this surprise attack was carefully selected to be a Sunday; Colonel Leslie was hoping that the devout Puritans of Salem would be occupied in their Sunday church services when he arrived with his troops.

Most of the people of Salem and the surrounding communities were indeed in church on that cold, damp Sunday morning. But Colonel Leslie had not realized that the fishermen of Marblehead often plied their trade seven days a week. And so, when the troops landed at Marblehead, news of their arrival was quickly sent around the countryside. The Americans immediately guessed that the British were after Mason’s cannons.

Unaware that warning of their approach was spreading rapidly, the British set off for Salem at a quick march. Their regimental flags were whipping in the tangy salt breeze, stiff and cold after coming straight off the water. The morning was cloudy, with only a few bleak rays of wintry sunshine to glint off the weapons of the soldiers who were marching through the quiet, peaceful countryside. The regimental band’s fife player began playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy”, a song the British played to insult the American country bumpkins. The fife chirped merrily in time to the heavy tramp of two hundred and forty pairs of British boots.

But the British were in for a surprise. As they approached the North River on the road to Salem, they could see a crowd of people on the opposite bank. The tootling fife slowly died away as the British troops saw that the drawbridge across the river had been pulled up. The crowd across the river was made up of nearly a hundred angry, armed Americans. Many were still dressed in their Sunday best. The word had spread quickly, and the churches of Salem had emptied in a twinkling. Men had grabbed their muskets and headed to the bridge. And more were showing up every minute.

Colonel Leslie tried to take control of the situation. “I order you to put down the bridge!” he shouted across the water. “In the name of the King!”

This demand was answered with yells and jeers from the crowd. “We will not,” said American Timothy Pickering. “Why should we?”

“Because you are loyal subjects of King George!” Colonel Leslie replied. His answer caused the Americans to erupt into even louder shouts of derision. Colonel Leslie’s lieutenants urged him to open fire.

John Felt, a Captain in the Massachusetts Committee of Safety, was watching the scene with growing anger, his musket ready and gripped in both hands. He could hear the British lieutenants as they urged their commander to open fire. Suddenly Felt could stand it no longer. “If you open fire, you will all be dead men!” he yelled.

Colonel Leslie had spotted some boats upstream and sent a few men to fetch them. The Americans raced to the boats and scuttled them before the British could get there. A small scuffle ensued, with the Americans taunting the British regulars to action. Joseph Wicher dared the British to bayonet him on the spot, and he was nicked in the brief fight. It was the first bloodshed of the war that hadn’t started – yet.

Meanwhile, Pastor Thomas Barnard crossed the water and began negotiations with Colonel Leslie for a peaceful end of the situation. The crowd of Americans had been steadily growing larger throughout the day, and Leslie realized uneasily that he was becoming outnumbered. As the negotiations proceeded, a Quaker named Joseph Boyce was heading the effort to frantically move the cannons to the nearby town of Danvers.

And still Minutemen were arriving. They came from all over Massachusetts: from Danvers, Lynn, Amesbury, and Marblehead. “Lobsterbacks!” They taunted the soldiers. “Redcoats! Cowards!”

Finally, late in the afternoon when the cannon were all well out of the area, a compromise was reached. The bridge would be lowered and the British would be allowed to advance only 150 yards in search of the cannons. Then, they were to turn around and leave. Colonel Leslie pledged his word, and he kept it. The drawbridge was lowered slowly, creaking and rumbling before it jolted into place. The British fell into formation. They marched across the bridge, their boots echoing hollowly along the wooden surface. Right, left, right, left. The Americans were armed and ready. A silence fell on the crowd as they waited and watched as the British marched past the bridge into the countryside. A few more paces, and then:

“Hhhaaalt!” The British sergeants yelled, their deep voices bellowing across the fields. The British stopped. “Aaaabbboouuut face!” The British turned. They marched back over the bridge. Right, left, right, left, back they way they came.

The Americans could contain themselves no longer. The crowd exploded into jeers and yells, following on the heels of the British, yelling and taunting and cursing. The Minutemen still held their muskets ready, their faces tense and stern as they shadowed the retreating British. They marched back through the streets of Salem in the darkening twilight, back to Marblehead, with the Americans following every step of the way.

David Mason’s cannons were saved and saw no action that day. But the war that didn’t start that day was only temporarily averted. In less than two months, the British would send troops on another mission to take weapons the Americans were hiding, this time at Concord. The war that had almost started by the North Bridge in Salem would instead start not far away on the green of a small farming village called Lexington, where the Minutemen would confront the British on the morning of April 19th, 1775.

Sources:
http://colonial-america.suite101.com/article.cfm/leslies_retreat_salem_ma_1775
http://www.salemfocus.com/Leslie's Retreat.htm
http://www.salemhistoryonline.com/PowderAlarm.html

The Battle of New Orleans

2010-01-21T12:49:00.000-08:00

On the morning of January 8th, 1815, about four thousand Americans were huddled behind an earthen fortification. The morning was cool for New Orleans, and a fog had made everything slippery. The trees in the nearby cypress swamp were dripping wet with the mist. The men behind the breastwork waited in silence. They knew that beyond their fortifications, somewhere out there in the swirling mist, the mightiest army on earth was advancing to take the city of New Orleans – the dripping city whose buildings were barely visible to its defenders through the fog.

The British had finally defeated Napoleon, and had now turned the might of their military machine against the still-fledgling republic of the United States. The British, in a recent bold move, had invaded and sacked the American capitol at Washington D.C. They had burned much of the city and many government buildings, including the White House. Congress had been forced to flee from the advancing British. The long, drawn out war had dangerously drained the U.S. Treasury, and public morale was low.

In fact, the war was technically over. The Treaty of Ghent had been signed in Ghent, Belgium, on December 24, 1814. Once it was ratified by both countries, hostilities were to cease.

But the men who crouched in silence behind the trench outside of New Orleans knew nothing of the treaty that had been signed half a world away. News from Europe often took six months to reach America. And the British officers poised on the outskirts of New Orleans were determined to take this city, the gateway to the mighty Mississippi.

Many of the British were veterans of the long, agonizing war with Napoleon in Europe. Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane had put together a flotilla of over fifty ships to transport 10,000 troops, many of them hardened veterans, from Jamaica. These troops were to be led by Sir Edward Pakenham, brother-in-law to the Duke of Wellington and a decorated veteran of the Napoleonic wars. The British wanted the taking of New Orleans to be a decisive blow, one that would turn the tide of victory to them once and for all.

On the American side, General Andrew Jackson was in command. He had been hastily dispatched from up North when the Americans realized the British had set their sights on New Orleans. General Jackson arrived in late 1814, and found the city of New Orleans in a near panic. Everyone realized the British would be coming soon- in force.

And they were right. On December 23th and then again on December 28th, the British had launched probing attacks. The Americans had withstood them, but had fallen back to a defensive position on the outskirts of New Orleans. While the British waited for reinforcements before making an all-out offensive, the Americans dug in.

Along a line about three-fifths of a mile long, on a field between the Mississippi River on one side and an impassable cypress swamp on the other, the Americans dug a trench in the swampy ground. When their fortification was complete, they had a breastwork made up of earth and cotton bales, and whatever else was handy, that stood at least five feet high. There was a ditch in front that was soon filled with murky water from the nearby swamp.

It was an unusual assortment of troops gathered behind the breastwork on that cool, misty morning. General Jackson had brought all the regular Army troops that he could find, and they joined a rapidly assembling force in New Orleans. Militiamen from the city itself were turning out, many of them wealthy businessmen in elegant clothes, complete with buckled shoes and ruffled shirts. A large number of freed Haitaian slaves were taking up arms as free men. Frontiersmen from Kentucky and Tennessee had arrived with their fringed buckskin and deadly long rifles. There were even pirates defending New Orleans that day – crewmen of the notorious pirate leader Jean Lafitte, who had struck a deal with General Jackson for pardons for his men. It was as diverse a crowd as could be found in any American city of the day, and they were all there for the same purpose – to take aim at the British.

And they didn’t have too long to wait. The British moved in with eight thousand men advancing towards the American breastwork. They were moving quickly to take advantage of the cover from the heavy fog. The Americans, peering anxiously through the swirling darkness around them, spotted the enemy battalions on the march. Yells ripped through the silence as the American officers gave the order to open fire.

Then, as an American soldier later remembered, “I reckon there was a pretty considerable noise.” The American firepower roared out from the cover of the breastwork. After the first round, the motley assortment of Americans fired at will, organization broken up with “everyone firing away on his own hook”. Many couldn’t see what they were firing at, but they poured lead out at the foggy field. The American lines were full of talking, yelling, joking and swearing. Bitter burning gun smoke sat low in the heavy fog. An American colonel from Tennessee, and before that from Ireland, jumped up on the breastwork and stooped down, peering through the darkness. “Shoot low, boys, shoot low!” He yelled in his heavy brogue. “They’re coming on their all fours!”

The Americans did not let up in their heavy fire for nearly an hour. They loaded, shot, and reloaded as fast as they could, many talking and joking all the while, seemingly oblivious of danger and the bullets that whistled by their ears and spattered angrily into the ramparts around them.

The fog still sat low and heavy, obscuring the battlefield and holding the choking gunpowder smoke low to the ground. A few men, determined to see what they were shooting at, jumped to the top of the breastwork and peered into the dimness till they spotted a target- a movement of red through the fog. Then they would take deliberate aim, fire, and jump back down to reload. One man was yelled at by an officer for exposing himself too much. “Colonel,” he asked, pushing his broad-brimmed hat back off his forehead, “I don’t want to waste my powder, and I’d like to know, how I can shoot until I see something?”

Suddenly someone saw something white through the fog. A murmur rippled through the lines of Americans. “A flag – it’s a white flag!” It waved back and forth again and again and then a British officer, a Major, appeared at the breastwork. He was allowed over the lines, and soon surrendered his sword. The British were giving up. The battle was over.

A ragged cheer rose up from among the American lines along the makeshift embankment. The sun, already well on its way up in the morning sky, had been steadily burning through the mist, and now the fog suddenly lifted like a curtain off a stage. The Americans fell silent as they saw the battlefield for the first time. From end to end, from the river on the one side and the swamp on the other, the field was covered with red. Covered with the bodies of fallen British soldiers, some still groaning and trying to move, and others utterly still, piled in some places two or three deep.

The sun had burned through the fog now, and was shining brightly down on the dripping cypress swamp, down on the city and its embattled defenders, down on the scene of carnage they had wrought.

As it turned out, the British advance had been a disaster from the start. They had forgotten some important tools used for climbing embankments. The troops had been split into two columns that had marched straight into the ferocious, deadly hail of American fire. One company of Scottish Highlanders had been almost completely obliterated when they were sent diagonally across the field to reinforce one of the columns. Sir Edward Pakenham was dead, and both of his senior generals had been shot early in the battle.

In all, the British losses were staggering. They suffered over two thousand casualties, and several hundred more were captured. On the American side, eight were killed and thirteen wounded.

The fighting between the Americans and the British came to an end soon after the Battle of New Orleans. This last major battle of the War of 1812, that was actually fought after the war was “officially” over, had not, in the end, changed the outcome of the war. But it had made a hero of “Old Hickory”, as General Jackson was known, and he was elected President in the following election.

The Battle of New Orleans had done more than just make one man’s reputation, however. It had given America a huge boost in morale. It had proven that America could beat the mightiest army on earth. It had proven, for all to see, that the Republic still lived - and the Stars and Stripes would still wave over the United States of America.

Sources: "The Battle of New Orleans, 1815," EyeWitness to History,
eyewitnesstohistory.com (2006)., “The Battle of New Orleans” by A. Wilson Greene, http://www.danielhaston.com/history/war-1812/neworleans-battle.htm,. “Battle: A Visual Journey Through 5,000 Years of Combat”, by R.G. Grant, 2005 DK Publishing, New York.

Lest We Forget . . . Christmas, 1776

2009-11-27T14:03:00.000-08:00

Christmas Day, 1776, was a dismal, freezing day for the troops of the Continental Army serving under General George Washington. The Americans were camped on the banks of the Delaware River in temperatures well below freezing. In the afternoon of that Christmas Day, a raw, icy wind began to blow in from the northeast. The soldiers didn’t really have anything resembling uniforms. Many of them had no shoes; the best they could do was to wrap rags around their feet. The troops were constantly battling illness caused by exposure and disease.

Even worse, morale was at an all time low. Washington’s army had just retreated across the Delaware River after a long line of disastrous campaigns in New York. The ranks were dwindling as more men deserted every day. Many men thought the war was over, that the Americans had lost. Even General Washington had his doubts. In a letter to his brother, he worried about “a noble cause lost” and wrote: “I think the game is pretty near up.”

The British certainly thought so. General Howe, commander of the British troops, felt he had the Americans beaten and bottled up. He left a battalion of Hessians under command of Colonel Johann Rall in Trenton to keep the Americans at bay. Howe himself returned to the comforts of New York City to enjoy the holiday season.

Washington decided that the time was ripe for the Americans to strike a decisive blow. Activity was preferable to waiting out the miserable winter without supplies, and with disease and desertion ravaging his troops. The New York campaign had convinced Washington that direct, army versus army battles with the British were not winnable for the Americans. There were simply too many British and Hessians, who were too well equipped and too well trained. The Americans were sadly lacking in all those areas. The Americans were too few, they were poorly trained, and they were undersupplied.

Washington decided that until these deficiencies were fixed, the Americans needed to stick to small engagements and surprise attacks; in effect, “guerilla” warfare. And Washington knew that the best time for such a blow was when the enemy least expected it. The element of surprise was essential.

And so, as the wind began to mix with icy sleet and snow, on December 25, 1776, the main body of Continental troops got the orders to march to a narrow point in the Delaware River known as McKonkey’s Ferry. The troops did not know where they were going or why, but as one soldier, John Greenwood, later wrote: “I never heard soldiers say anything, or trouble themselves, as to where they were or where they were led…for it was all the same owing to the impossibility of being in a worse condition than their present one, and therefore the men always liked to be kept moving in expectation of bettering themselves.”

Secrecy was the order of the day. Complete silence was imposed on the marching troops, and the password for the expedition, decided on by General Washington earlier in the day, was “Victory or Death.”

Two smaller forces of troops, commanded by General John Cadwalader and General James Ewing, were set to cross the river at different points, to join in the attack or at least create a diversion from the real target, the Hessian garrison at Trenton. But the weather became fiercer. The temperatures dropped and the wind began to roar with all the ferociousness of a full-blown nor’easter. The wind was filled with icy sleet, snow, and hail. The river began to rise ominously and the rough, black water was surging with chunks of ice. The generals commanding the diversionary troops decided the river was impassable. Their troops would have had to travel over a hundred yards of ice to even reach the water’s edge. They decided to halt the attack and turn back. However, at the narrow point of McKonkey’s Ferry, General Washington did not appear to have any second thoughts. He stood watching the troops embark across the river, a solitary, silent figure wrapped in his cloak.

One of the trickiest parts of the expedition was the actual river crossing. The men were packed standing into shallow boats called Durham boats, and piloted across the river by men of Colonel John Glover’s 14th Regiment of Massachusetts. This regiment was well picked for the job; many were fishermen from Marblehead. They used long poles and oars to ferry the boats across the choppy, icy water.

By three a.m. on the morning of December 26th, 2,400 troops had crossed the river, as well as horses and artillery. They were three hours behind schedule, but the troops moved ahead into the stormy darkness, beginning the nine mile march south to Trenton. The storm continued unabated and, incredibly, grew worse. The soldiers struggled along the road that was hard and uneven with frozen ruts and slick with icy sleet. Men and horses slid and slipped in the dark. One soldier remembered later that he was so cold he was numb all over, “so be-numbed with cold that I wanted to go to sleep. Had I been passed unnoticed, I should have frozen to death without knowing it.” In fact, two soldiers did freeze to death during that bitterly cold march to Trenton.

At the crossroads of Birmingham, the army split, with one force under General Sullivan heading to the right, and General Washington’s troops keeping to the left on Pennington Road. The day dawned around seven a.m., a cold, wintry morning. The rising sun slowly outlined the barren trees along the road with the first rays of milky light, barely shining through the low hanging clouds. The men marched on, utterly silent, through the icy dawn, their feet crunching over the icy, slippery road.

Finally, at eight a.m., both columns were in position, immediately north of Trenton. The attack began as the men moved forward along Pennington Road, picking up their speed into a long trot. The storm was still pouring snow from the sky, and the wind was at the back of the American attackers. The Hessians guarding the road could barely see into the blinding storm and had no idea of the size of the force bearing down on them. They retreated smoothly into the town and kept up a steady fire at the advancing Americans.

General Sullivan’s troops attacked almost simultaneously from the River Road, opening the attack with the boom of artillery. One of Washington’s staff later remembered that “General Washington’s face lighted up instantly, for he knew it was one of Sullivan’s guns.”

The two American columns converged as they entered the town, and the Americans, wet and frozen to the bone, having just marched nine weary miles, threw themselves into combat with a ferocious will. The Hessians tried to form up in the streets, but Henry Knox had his artillery battalions ready, and they went into action with deadly force. The streets were cleared “in the twinkling of an eye”. The Americans had been ordered to fix their bayonets since the powder was wet from the snow and ice. Soon, savage house to house fighting was taking placing all through the houses and streets of Trenton. The air was filled with smoke from the artillery, screams and shouts in English and German, and still with swirling snow.

The Hessians rolled out an artillery gun and tried to take aim at the Americans, but before they could fire, six Virginians led by Captain William Washington (a distant relative of General George Washington) and Lieutenant James Monroe, rushed forward, seized the gun, and turned it on the Hessians.

Hessian Colonel Johann Rall tried to rally his troops and ordered a charge. But the American fire was too fierce, and the Hessians fled into an orchard. They were immediately surrounded, and surrendered when they realized their plight.

The battle, altogether, had taken about forty-five minutes. Twenty-one Hessians had been killed, and over nine hundred were captured. The Americans also captured six brass cannons, forty horses, and over a thousand weapons. Only four Americans were wounded in the Battle of Trenton. The only two fatalities were the two men who froze to death during the night march.

After securing the spoils of battle, the Americans turned around and marched back up the road, nine miles to McKonkey’s Ferry. Back through the freezing wintry day, back along the same icy ruts they had traveled through the long, bitter night, and back into the boats, over the surging, icy waters of the Delaware.

But the army that had marched down to Trenton was not the same that now marched back. They were no longer a demoralized, disintegrating army, but a victorious army that had soundly beaten a battle-hardened foe. Now they were an army that had struck a blow that would rock the British Empire to its core. Now they had won a battle that would allow the cause of freedom to live to fight another day.

The Day the Buyer Fell

2009-07-27T22:47:00.000-07:00

The old woman shrieked as she slipped backwards off the step. She staggered drunkenly through the entryway, her hands grabbing wildly at the walls before she crashed, elbow-first, through the window. Splinters of glass shattered on the tile floor and my mother's prized boston fern hit the ground and rolled, sending dirt and fronds flying through the air. I rushed to the old woman's side to help her up, my mind dazedly noting details like the torn curtain and blood splattered on the opposite wall. The old woman's realtor was helping her up on the other side saying, "Oh, Mary, are you all right? Oh Mary, you broke the window!" Her voice showed her disbelief.

The old woman's daughter, a rotund woman with an unpleasant voice and manner, confronted me suddenly. "I think you should call 9-1-1." She sounded bored.

The old woman's granddaughter, only slightly less rotound and unpleasant than her mother, piped up, sounding equally unconcerned. "Don't worry," she said. "Stuff like this happens to my grandmother all the time."

It sounds like a scene from a bizarre dream, but it actually happened when we sold our house. It is a day that will be forever etched in my memory.

We'd finally sold our house, after having it on the market for many months. Those were anxious months, passing out flyers, hurriedly and excitedly straightening up the house as prospective buyers came and went, wondering if the price was too high or too low. We were building our own new home simultaneously, and that excitement kept me from thinking too much about leaving the house that had been my home for my entire life.

But, by the grace of God, the timing of our house sale worked out very well. We had two good offers in one week, and took the better of the two- our full asking price. Our new home would be ready within five days of our old home sale closing. At the end of that July, we had already had numerous inspections completed, which were adventures themselves. One inspector, a man in a red jumpsuit, probed about and came up with the most ridiculous objections to things that had been perfectly fine during the twenty-some years we had lived there. The pest inspector crawled around under the house and came up declaring that the scrap wood he found down there had to be removed immediately - it was "food for termites, food for termites." Never mind that it had been there, undisturbed by termites, since the house was built in 1962.

But we were through all of that, finally. We were loading up box after box with our stuff, some of which hadn't seen the light of day in fifteen years, and then, at last, came the day of the final "walk though" with the buyer.

The buyer was an elderly woman named Mary, who was buying the house for her granddaughter to live in while she (the granddaughter) attended classes at the local University. The details were a little hazy, but it really wasn't our business anyway. I was home alone that day. My parents had work, my brother was helping out at our new property, and I was a college student on summer break.

The buyer's realtor arrived first. I had met her before, and liked her. Her name was Susan, and she was a tall, willowy woman with a quiet voice and manner. Soon after she came, the buyer's daughter and granddaughter arrived. They were not exceptionally nice people, but we contrived to be pleasant. I was rather surprised at how the daughter began the conversation.

"You know, I don't get along well with my mother," she told me confidingly.

In the following half-hour, I heard all about her quarrels with her mother, her mother's exasperating (to the daughter) idiosyncracies, how she disagreed with her mother's plan to buy the house for the granddaughter. I also heard about how the daughter didn't like the tires on her car, how she was going to sue the tire manufacturer, how she'd already sued somebody else ... and so on. By the end of the conversation I was extremely nervous that something would happen after we sold the house and she'd sue us.

This conversation dragged on and on as we waited for Mary. Her car had been behind her daughter's on the drive from California, but had apparently disappeared at some juncture; and neither the daughter nor the granddaughter seemed very concerned about it, saying she was sure to show up soon. The daughter held it up to me as typical of her mother's vagaries.

But Mary finally did come, and the realtor and I quickly got on with the walk though. We strolled about the rooms leisurely, checking light switches and appliances, listening to Mary's endless stream of antedotes about her darling granddaughter. Susan more than once had to stem the tide of talk and politely steer us to another room.

We had reached the living room when the crisis came. It was a big room, that was fronted by a tiled sunroom and entryway, with one step down towards the front door. Mary was pointing up at an ornate light fixture and remarking on how pretty it was, when she moved too far back and missed the step. That was when choas broke loose.

She screamed, staggered, and crashed through the window. I was on the other side of the room but I saw it all very clearly, and almost in slow motion. Then Mary was moaning on the floor, the hot July breeze was drifting through the windows, and before I knew it, I was on the phone talking to the 9-1-1 dispatcher.

The dispatcher had a hard, distinct voice that talked in harsh, clipped tones. "How far did she fall?" She demanded. I remember looking down at the floor and saying, "Well, she didn't exactly fall too far, she kind of staggered-"

"How far did she fall?" The woman demanded again, her voice sharper than ever, as though she was dealing with a lunatic.

"I don't know, a couple of feet, I guess." It was the best I could do.

The fire truck arrived first, with the siren screaming, and an ambulance was close behind. It seemed like the house was suddenly swarmed over with helpful men in firemen's brown jumpers - there was another one wherever I looked. The ambulance crew was helping Mary, but the firemen didn't have much to do, so they talked to me, to the realtor, to the granddaughter. She tried to flirt with them all and invited them to her housewarming party on the spot. One fireman picked up the broken glass and another got an impromtu tour of the house from the granddaughter. "Its a nice place," he said, looking around approvingly.

It turned out that Mary was all right. She didn't need to go to the hospital in the ambulance. But she needed some stitches for her arm, and the one woman in the ambulance crew suggested they visit an emergency room at one of the local hospitals.

At this, the daughter groaned loudly. "I don't want to go to an emergency room and stand around waiting for hours," she said. "Isn't there some doc in a box where we can take her to get those stitches?"

Her brash voice seemed to hang in the air as everyone stared at her, shocked at her callousness. I remember the woman medic's jaw dropped open in amazement and the ambulance team leader looked grimly disapproving as he shut his mouth hard- maybe refraining from saying something.

Finally they all left. Susan was driving Mary to the emergency room, despite the daughter's objections; the daughter and granddaughter followed in their own car. The ambulance left and the friendly firefighters left last, with many good wishes to all, on our new house, on the house sale, on the upcoming college semester. Then they were gone.

I sat down on the infamous step, hugging my knees in the silent house and looking on the field of battle. The blood had dried on the wall. The white sheer curtains, sadly tattered, fluttered in the hot, dry, desert breeze that drifted through the shattered pane.

And then I noticed for the first time- my mother's fern had been picked up and placed back in its elegant wrought-iron plant stand. I stared at it; there was something odd about it, something odd other than the missing dirt and damaged leaves. Then I realized: the plant stand was upside down. The fern had been jammed into the feet and the fern looked precariously close to falling again.

For the first time that afternoon, I had to laugh.

. . . . . .

The Party/Principle Paradox

2009-07-19T23:20:00.000-07:00

I recently attended a local Republican meeting that was addressed by a member of the National Federation of Young Republicans. I was struck by something he said, because I disagreed with it so completely. He said: "The point of a political party is to get your people elected into office. That's it. That's the whole point."

Hmmm...

I would define a political party as a group of people with similar views and beliefs, who join forces to change laws, elect people, introduce resolutions, etc, that forward their belief system. A political party should be the means to an end, not an end in itself. But too often, the reverse is true. Many long time Republicans (and this might apply to Democrats too) seem to be all about "the Party". "The Party" has to win, "the Party" has to grow, "the Party" has to elect more people. It's all about red vs. blue, elephants vs. donkeys, us vs. them. "We" are the good guys and "they" are the bad guys. What those respective parties stand for is only secondary. Maybe the principles one party stands for vs. another are really only for the schmuck in the street, to make them feel like they have a choice when they vote.

Because the average schmuck in the street doesn't realize that the whole political system, at the top at least, is all about power. It isn't about conservatives vs. liberals. It's about which party can elect more people, get more kickbacks, get more contracts for the interests that back them, and so more money... i. e., which party can have more POWER.

And the people who are really in control, who control both parties - you've noticed, haven't you, that the big government, tyrannical, new world order globalization agenda gets moved ahead by whatever party is in power - those people who control both parties let the Dems and Repubs fight it out. Their fights never really mean anything or change anything. But it makes people who watch FOX News feel like they have a choice. The whole great media system of talking heads is based on propagating the left-right paradigm that is a neat bit of divide and conquer of the American people. I'm amazed that it has worked so well for so long.

And currently, the right-wing of the system is in a bit of turmoil. Republicans seem to be struggling on all fronts, even to define what their party is all about. The topic of "What is the future of the Republican Party?" is a popular question in the media. Republican pundits have said that the party needs to be all-inclusive, and invite more people into the party, and (like the gentleman at the meeting I attended) get more Republicans elected!

The important point they've missed is that people won't join a party that stands for nothing other than "the Party". How can you expect people to join Republicans for the sake of ... Republicans? People want to follow leaders, who have a vision and principles. The party cannot be an end in itself and expect to prosper. It must have principles that it is willing to stand for (after all, what else is a platform?). The Party has to have a vision that others can share and want to be a part of. Whatever you think of Obama, he undoubtedly presented a vision of what he would do as President.

Republicans are saying Obama won because his campaign utilized technology more effectively than they did. Republicans don't want to admit that they had a candidate that was picked to lose. They don't want to admit that their Party has no vision, no leadership, no principles for people to believe in and follow. And they don't seem to have figured it out yet. They want to get more people into their party, dilute every principle so they don't offend anyone and welcome everyone, so more people join and vote Republican and elect Republicans...

But they don't get it. A political party without political principles is ... not really a party at all.

2009-07-12T13:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the annual "Breakfast and Branding" fundraiser held by local Republicans at Quail Canyon Ranch. It makes for a fun morning. A real down-home breakfast of eggs, hashbrowns, and bacon is prepared in the open air, folks can take in some real cowboy action in the corral nearby (yes, real branding), and a twangy bluegrass band adds to the country atmosphere.

I realized yesterday that this is all part of a culture that is uniquely American; and it is a culture that is dying. In another ten years, maybe a few more or less, this kind of event, and (more importantly) the culture it represents, will probably be lost forever.

It's hot and dry and dusty by the corral. The cowboys trot around on their horses with lassoes alertly poised, looking for the cows- usually young ones- who haven't been branded yet. The shouts of the cowboys, the lowing of the cattle, the taste of alkali dust and the American flag flapping overhead in the dry desert breeze might make the average city-dweller feel like they've stepped onto the set of a cowboy movie. But for the ranchers, it is a way of life.

And sadly, it's a way of life that is simply no longer profitable economically. The little family ranch is being squeezed out of business. Many ranchers have day jobs and ranch on the weekends. Big operations have taken over the market, because they can better handle the burden of taxes and fees and permits. The new "Cap and Trade" bill, set to slap a carbon tax on every cow, could easily push every small operation completely out of business.

The owner of the Quail Canyon Ranch won't be around forever, and her children and grandchildren have no desire to take over operations. So the land will probably be sold; perhaps to the neighboring Paiutes, perhaps to a developer to make into a real estate scheme. It's a sad story that has been happening to so many old family ranches; as the owners pass away, the family homestead is developed into shopping malls or new branches of suburbia.

But Quail Canyon Ranch is a really unique place. Many scenes from "The Misfits" were filmed in the old farmhouse, estimated to have been originally built in the 1880's. The old house is surrounded by huge trees and lush undergrowth, thanks to a trickling spring that makes an oasis in the middle of Nevada's sea of sage. It's the kind of place where every stick and stone have a meaning to the owner, who loves her home and worries and wonders about what will happen when she is gone.

I wonder, too. The Quail Canyon Ranch, and the others like it around Nevada and the West, are part of the ranching culture that is fading away with the passing years. Events like the "Breakfast and Branding" bring that heritage back to life, at least for a little while.

And hidden in the hills and sheltered by the trees, the little house of Quail Canyon Ranch still stands, having stood the test of time for so many years...against countless storms, fires, drought, and winds - giving shelter to forgotten generations under it's roof.

Long may it so stand.

Looking back...

2009-07-04T22:46:00.000-07:00

Since this is Independence Day, it's a good time to look back and think about the founding of the United States. The more I look back to that time and those people, the more impressed I get.

Give me liberty or give me death.

I think about those men who signed the Declaration of Independence. I wonder what were they thinking as they crowded around to sign, as the quill pen scratched across the paper, as they held the pen in their hand, bent over the desk... and signed their own name? Were they thinking about the lives, fortunes, and sacred honor they were pledging? Were they thinking about their families, their homes? Were they afraid, with cold, sweaty palms and churning stomachs? Or was it only a formality, a final step along the road to the Revolution that they had been travelling toward for so long? After all, the war had already begun. Shots had already been fired at Lexington and Concord.

Give me liberty or give me death.

But I don't just think about those brave men who signed onto the Declaration of Independence. I also think about all the men who answered the call for Minutemen, nameless and faceless thousands who left the safety and familiarity of their homes to go and face a brutal war - a war they knew would be fought with cannon and shot and bayonets - a war that would be fought in the fields they farmed, the towns they grew up in - a war against the greatest military on the earth that dominated the globe - a war they were going to fight with only their muskets in their hands and the fire in their hearts - a war from which many would never return, and which would change the history of the world...

Give me liberty or give me death.

And I think about the women who sent those men. Women who packed up their food, mended their clothes, comforted the frightened children ... and watched as their husbands, fathers, brothers walked off to face unknown dangers. Women who carried on with the work so it would be in good shape when their men came back - women who lived with the fear that their men might never come back - women who smiled bravely and said, "Good-bye and God Speed, dear", trying to keep the tears out of their voices - women who fell on their knees every night and prayed with all their heart that God would send their men home safely...

Give me liberty or give me death.

Those were the people that made the sacrifices that brought about this great Republic - this Republic that has seen people more free than they have ever been before. Those were the people that actually believed those words: Give me liberty or give me death. Those weren't just words to them. It was a way of life.

Nevada State Sovereignty Bill Needs Help!!

2009-04-11T21:32:00.000-07:00

URGENT: ACTION NEEDED

As some of you may know, a State Sovereignty resolution (AJR 15) was introduced in the Nevada Assembly back in the middle of March. This bill is one way to help back off the out of control federal government and give us another layer of protection from them.

Apparently it is in danger of not being scheduled for a hearing.

Please, if you have not already done so, contact the committee members and voice your support for this resolution!!

Committee Members Contact Info:
Cobb, Ty
tcobb@asm.state.nv.us

Conklin, Markus
mconklin@asm.state.nv.us

Gansert, Heidi S
hgansert@asm.state.nv.us

Hambrick, John
jhambrick@asm.state.nv.us

Horne, William
whorne@asm.state.nv.us

Kihuen, Ruben
rkihuen@asm.state.nv.us

Koivisto, Ellen M
Elections, Procedures, and Ethics, Chair;
Constitutional Amendments, Vice Chair
ekoivisto@asm.state.nv.us

Mortenson, Harry
Elections, Procedures, and Ethics, Vice Chair;
Constitutional Amendments, Chair
hmortenson@asm.state.nv.us

Munford, Harvey J
hmunford@asm.state.nv.us

Ohrenschall, James
johrenschall@asm.state.nv.us

Segerblom, Tick
rsegerblom@lvcoxmail.com

Settelmeyer, James
jsettelmeyer@asm.state.nv.us

Smith, Debbie
dsmith@asm.state.nv.us

Full contact info (for all Assemblymen) here:
http://www.leg.state.nv.u...

ALSO, this link is for an online poll conducted on the NV Legislature website where you can voice your opinion:

https://www.leg.state.nv....

More info:
http://www.usacarry.com/f...

Thanks everyone!!

2009-03-15T17:15:00.000-07:00

There is a new phenomenon sweeping across the political landscape. It’s the new “revolution” complete with meet-up groups and tea parties. It’s full of the usual rhetoric about the out-of-control politicians in Washington. What’s strange is that this “movement” is full of new faces that were nowhere to be seen during the Ron Paul Revolution. This new “movement” is being promoted by the Republican party, and neo-con hacks like Glenn Beck - who all did their absolute utmost to slander, squelch, and stop the Ron Paul Revolution.

Hmmmm . . . it makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Now that there’s no chance of electing Ron Paul for President and getting REAL change; now that we have safely installed our new boss Obama that is so like the old boss Bush and working so harmoniously with the controlled opposition candidate McCain; now that Republicans have someone they can safely criticize and still be “in” with their party cronies; now that it is “safe” to say you support the Constitution and the Founding Fathers (because now “safe” people like Glenn Beck are saying it); now the timid hordes of controlled, mind-numbed Republicans are once again being herded into a controlled opposition movement.

Because that’s what this movement is. The “establishment” or the “new world order” or whatever you want to call them, were frightened by the Ron Paul movement. There were a lot of us; and, for the most part, we were dedicated, passionate, and educated about freedom, which was very much a threat to the establishment. We were breaking through the “left-right paradigm” that has been used so successfully for so many years to control the people of this country.

So the establishment realized that they had a problem. And they realized that the Ron Paul candidacy had to be stopped. So they stopped it. They had the money and the power to do so. Not enough people became educated and stood up with the Ron Paul revolution. There were a lot of us, but there weren’t enough of us. The Republican Party treated Ron Paul and his followers shamefully around the country. What happened in Nevada was a case in point.

So now they’re going to let us have our little revolution, apparently, to make us feel better. Now, apparently, the Republicans feel it’s safe to jump on the fun bandwagon of meet-up groups and tea parties, now that the Republic has been sold down the river.

To all of you people now joining this “movement”, I would like to ask: where were you when our Republic really needed you? Why didn’t you have the guts to stand up and be counted when it could have really made a difference? Have you seen how McCain has followed Mr. Obama so docilely down the road to hell? Have you seen now how you were betrayed and controlled? Are you seeing that you were all played for fools and suckers?

And now that it’s safe; now that it’s blessed by the Republican party; now that the controlled media has sanctioned it; now you jump on board and say you want a revolution! Your efforts now are terribly, terribly late. Too bad you didn’t come along with the Revolution when it could have made a real difference.

2009-02-15T20:12:00.000-08:00

Lady Liberty is growing old,
her arms heavy with the weight they hold,

The torch that used to shine so bright,
now dims and flickers through the night,

The golden door she stands beside,
is dull and darkened, a dream that's died,

She's stumbling through the night,
an old woman that's lost her sight,
Godless now, compassed with fright,

She staggers through the rising storm,
bent with care, frail and worn,
her gown is torn
it's in tatters

Lady Liberty, don't look down,
your feet are sinking in the slimy ground,
blood spilled in foreign lands
is streaming down your gown
from your hands

They tore
from her arms
freedom, hope for rich and poor,
words she once stood strongly for,
do they mean anything anymore?

Her people are poor, tired and tempest tossed,
Liberty! Your light is out!
where are you - we can't see you - Liberty, are you lost?

Never Forget . . .

2009-01-24T23:39:00.000-08:00

Ticking over my head, on the wall above me, is a simple, cheap wall clock with a plain white rim around its face. It looks like the most ordinary wall clock that you might buy in any grocery store; but actually, that clock has a story. We got it in the truckload of equipment from the Ron Paul campaign's Iowa call center. The clock went on to grace the wall of the Nevada Ron Paul call center. I remember looking at its face, gauging how much time we had left to call . . . for that night, or for that caucus, or for whatever battle we were fighting at the moment . . .

There's a lot of little reminders like that around my life. The red tape dispenser in the top kitchen drawer has a similar history. The hall outside my bedroom is crowded with boxes of slim-jims and political buttons. My brother has been organizing his stuff and has two similar boxes . . . and there's a huge pile of them in our garage. There's lots of Ron Paul signs up there . . . banners that hung over the podium at speeches and little homemade signs that were proudly carried at rallies around the streets of Reno. Those signs are old now, covered with dust and starting to curl with age.

These are relics of an incredible time in our lives. As my mind drifts back to those days, a few images stand out. I remember the call center, buzzing with voices, ringing phones, and happy, enthusiastic, dedicated people. I remember the silence of cleaning up that call center months later . . . the sound of taping up boxes and a tightening in my throat as I helped fold up the empty tables.

I remember the mass of people that crowded into Reed HS on the morning of the Nevada caucus . . . and in the front lines of that crowd, eager and anxious, I could pick out the faces of the Ron Paul people. Serious faces, faces of people ready for a task they had been prepping for for months . . . serious faces that understood how much was at stake.

I could go on and on. I could write a book, actually, and God-willing, I will write that book. Because there are a lot of stories to be told . . . some stories that are happy, some that aren't; some that are heart-warming and others that are stomach-turning. But they are stories that need to be told. Together, we did some incredible things. There so many stories that I can never forget.

Too much was accomplished, too many victories were gained, too many incredible things happened, for us to ever allow ourselves forget it.

The Story of the Pen

2009-01-04T02:59:00.000-08:00

I suppose a lot of people think, when they read the name of this blog, that I call it "Jen's Pen" because my name rhymes with "pen", and this blog is the home of my various literary efforts. Which is all true, but there's a bit more of a story to it than that.

Picture to yourself a little blond, curly-headed tyke of about three years old, enthusiastically playing with a bright red top in the middle of a long kitchen floor. This little girl's mother is at the kitchen table, writing the bills, listening to the racket as the top rattles and jangles over the linoleum. But the racket dies for a moment as the little girl's ever active attention is attracted to her mother's pen as she writes. The little girl watches the pen in fascination for a moment as the end of the pen swoops, dives, jiggles, then swoops again.

I was that little girl, of course. And that memory is from way back, one of the few moments I can remember from the hazy days of being very small. I remember the way my Mom's pen looked, and I remember distinctly wondering if I would ever be able to make my pen dance in that way. Wondering in a hopeful sort of way, like little kids do, feeling pretty sure they probably will do it, since everybody does, but still . . . wondering.

So I guess writing has always had a sort of fascination for me. And I still like to use an actual pen once in awhile, even though that's a little old-fashioned now.

Still a Ron Paul Republican

2008-12-29T19:28:00.000-08:00

There has been a move in our local Republican Party, as well as among some Ron Paulers, to strike the "Ron Paul" out of "Ron Paul Republican." The arguments are for "unity" and because "we're all Republicans, with no divisions."

Sorry, folks. I'm a Ron Paul Republican; and as far as I'm concerned, the first two words in that phrase make the third one palatable. Why should I hide my support of Ron Paul and his principles? I'm not ashamed that I supported Ron Paul; quite the opposite. It's considered acceptable to identify with Barry Goldwater or Ronald Reagan . . . why not Ron Paul?

Ron Paul is a Republican, and has been elected to office as a Republican Congressman eleven times. If the good doctor's name frightens some long-time Republicans, then they need to get over their prejudice . . . because, as long as I am a Republican, I am a Ron Paul Republican. Because I do not put party ahead of principle. Instead, I'll put principle ahead of party by saying "Ron Paul Republican," because that phrase identifies my principles . . . before the party.

This isn't like football. It's not about one team versus another, for the sake of "us" winning and "them" losing. It's got to be about principles . . . or what's the point of having a party at all?

You Know You're a Ron Paul Fanatic If . . .

2008-12-26T15:13:00.000-08:00

You know you're a Ron Paul fanatic if . . .

- Ron Paul t-shirts, sweaters, hats, etc. make up half of your wardrobe (at least)
- You stamp all your money with a "Ron Paul for President" stamp
- You still have Ron Paul bumper stickers, magnets, or signs on your vehicle
- You still have a Ron Paul sign in your yard
- You want to yell "RON PAUL!" every time you see a McCain or Obama bumper sticker
- You still tell anyone that will listen about Ron Paul
- You drove over a thousand miles to the Rally for the Republic . . . on a Harley
- Your local Republican party is still convinced there are "Ron Paul people" lurking behind every bush
- You check the Daily Paul . . . daily
- You start to cry when you watch old Ron Paul youtubes
- You listen to Aimee Allen's RP Revolution song (at least!) once a week . . .

Please everybody, add yours!

Report from State Central Committee Meeting

2008-12-17T12:56:00.000-08:00

The State CC Meeting was held this past weekend in Las Vegas at the Sahara Casino.

Business opened normally with the usual opening ceremonies. Governor Gibbons addressed the members and took some questions.

Prior to the meeting, the Terhunes et al circulated a blue paper (see below for text) with a question regarding the legality of the meeting. (The idea for this question originated with Mike Weber, who pointed out that state law says State CC members must be elected at the State Convention. Obviously, this did not happen at the April Convention.)

Rew Goodenow, retained counsel for the NV Exec board, was seen intently studying this blue paper for quite some time and apparently discussing it with others in a private fashion. After the meeting opened, Sue Lowden, chair of the meeting, mentioned the question on the blue paper, and said the issue would be addressed later in the meeting. Two of the members, Jim Uprichard and Cynthia Kennedy, asked for specifics about addressing this question, and Lowden repeated that it would be addressed later.

Reports from the County Chairs proceeded per the agenda. During her report, Storey County chairwoman Juanita Cox roundly rebuked the State Party leadership for their handling of the State Convention.

After lunch, members broke into their caucuses: Clark, Washoe, and the rural counties.

Robert Hardy, Washoe County member who was present as a guest with a proxy, introduced a resolution (see below for text) in writing that was similar to the one introduced at the last Washoe CC meeting regarding no confidence in the leadership. This resolution originated in Douglas County, and was altered by Victoria Crockett and Jennifer Terhune for introduction at this State CC meeting.

Cynthia Kennedy, who was also filming all of the proceedings, read the resolution on the floor. At this time, Chair Lowden asked members to line up if they wanted to speak for or against the resolution. Names were taken, and these people were later called back to the microphones to speak, alternating for and against. After this proceeding, a vote was taken and the resolution failed to pass.

While much of this was going on, Rew Goodenow was involved in a protracted discussion regarding the April convention and the legalities of those proceedings in the anteroom with Wayne Terhune, Tom Morris, Robert Holloway, Cynthia Kennedy, Juanita Cox, Breck Raskovsky, Dan May, and others. Mr. Goodenow did not appear to want to commit himself or give his opinion on any issues raised.

State Party Exec. Director Zac Moyle drew Wayne Terhune aside to explain his part in the April Convention proceedings. Zac, who was trying to be friendly and helpful, explained that he thought there was an agreement on delegates with the Paul campaign. Mr. Moyle then apologized to Terhune for poor judgement and handling parts of the situation badly. Moyle then brought National Committeeman Joe Brown into a discussion with Wayne Terhune, in an apparent attempt to bring some closure to this issue. A formal apology from the leadership was discussed with Moyle and Brown, with a draft apology written by Tom Morris. However, despite the efforts of Morris and Terhune, these talks did not lead to any formal or official apologies from the State leadership.

During these discusssions, the resolution had been voted on and failed. When Terhune returned to the meeting room, members of the Clark County CC (Brian Kominsky and Lisa Marie Johnson) were introducing and seconding a resolution to run Sue Lowden against Harry Reid for Senate. At this point, the Terhunes, Jim Uprichard, and Robert Hardy left the meeting in protest.

So my report ends there. . . the meeting closed soon thereafter. It was reported that Joe Brown later announced plans to hold meetings between disaffected delegates and Sue Lowden, but no specifics were given.

. . . . . .

Please note the following Nevada State
law that regulates the election of State
Central Committee members:

NRS 293.150 State conventions: Place and actions; additional conventions.

1. The delegates elected to the state convention of each major political party by
the several county conventions of that party shall convene on such respective dates as the
state central committees of the parties designate in each year in which the general election
is to be held, at the State Capital, or at such other place in the State as the state central
committee of that party designates. The delegates shall there organize, adopt a state
party platform, and elect a state central committee for that party for the ensuing
term and the chairman thereof.
2. The state central committee of each major political party may convene additional
state conventions of its party at such times and places as it designates during the period
between the state conventions, as provided in subsection 1, and the next ensuing precinct
meetings, as provided in NRS 293.135. The composition of the delegates at those
conventions must be the same as that certified pursuant to subsection 3 of NRS 293.140.
(Added to NRS by 1960, 241; A 1973, 595; 1987, 335, 1366; 1989, 225)
-----------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------

This law raises the following questions regarding the State Central Committee
meeting called for today, December 13, 2008:

Question 1:

Were State Central Committee members elected at the State Convention on April 26th,
2008? (This item was not even in the published agenda for this State Convention.)

Question 2:

Are the people invited to this meeting on December 13, 2008, the duly elected members
of the State Central Committee?

Question 3:

If not, who are the acting State Central Committee members?

***********************************************************************************
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Resolution

RESOLUTION BY THE
NEVADA REPUBLICAN CENTRAL COMMITTEE

Be it resolved this day of Saturday, December 13, 2008 as follows:

WHEREAS, the Nevada Republican State Convention on April 26, 2008 was abruptly
and illegally recessed without a proper motion to adjourn by the delegates, upon orders of
State Executive Chair, Sue Lowden, and

WHEREAS, the Nevada Republican Executive Committee showed poor planning in
organizing a one day event; despite the normal two days scheduled for such events, and

WHEREAS, the illegal recess during the national delegate selection caused
disillusionment of the state delegates because they were eliminated from the political
process and the state party selected their own national delegates, and

WHEREAS, even the National Republican Committee declared certain leaders in the
Nevada party inept,

THEREFORE, let it be resolved that the Nevada Republican Central Committee hereby
acknowledges the unfortunate events of the state convention and desires to ensure any
such situation does not occur again. Furthermore, the Nevada Republican Central
Committee enters a vote of NO CONFIDENCE in the Nevada State Republican Party
Executive leadership, as did the NRC, and an apology to all state delegates is in order.

. . . . . .

Such service . . .

2008-12-08T22:55:00.000-08:00

I had a new experience at the coffee shop the other day. I ordered a small, 1-shot espresso . . . and the girl gave me literally one shot, in the bottom of the cup. It felt really light when I picked up the cup. I asked the girl about it, and she insisted that she gave me what I'd ordered.

So I decided not to argue with her and asked her to please fill up the cup with coffee. "Oh, then what you wanted was an eye-opener," she declared loftily, marching off with my cup.

I humbly took the cup when she came back and offered to pay her more money, but she smiled beneficently and told me I didn't owe anything more.

Later, as I thought about it, I wondered what she would give me if I ordered a large 1-shot espresso?

. . . . . .

A friend of mine went into Starbucks today, plunked down his Starbucks travel mug, and asked for a grande black (since you're not supposed to speak English in those places.)

The girl appeared confused. "What?" She asked. My friend ordered again, indicating his travel mug. "Oh!", the girl said, and promptly came back with a paper cup, grande black.

. . . . . .

2008-11-15T21:42:00.000-08:00

****5****

The moving van rumbled across the bridge, the engine roaring and the metal side panels rattling and creaking. Thaddeus Slugg was gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles were white. His eyes were wild and his wispy gray hair was flying. He slammed up a gear and whirled around a corner. The van teetered on two wheels then landed down with a thump.

Joe Diamond glared at Slugg from the passenger seat. "Who do you think you are, Jimmy Murphy? You're going to blow up this crate and everything in it - " Joe jumped as he heard the whirr of sirens behind the van. He craned around in his seat. "Well, Slugg, your spectacular driving skills have picked us up a tail - and a noisy one at that. You'd better pull over."

"What, are you crazy?" Slugg shrieked. He pressed the gas all the way to the floor and the van shot ahead.

"No, are you? Slugg, you're going to get us killed! Pull over!"

"Forget it!" Slugg jerked the wheel and barely missed a truck as he roared onto the interstate. The sirens behind him screeched louder as two more police cars joined the chase.

Next to him, Joe lost his temper. He became utterly silent and every muscle in his body tensed. He raised himself up on a fist and a toe. And he waited. The interstate swung into a wide turn and Slugg didn't slow down as the van started to tilt.

At that moment, Joe jumped onto Slugg. Joe slammed his foot onto the brake and wrestled for the wheel. The van teetered and the wheels screamed and smoked, and the van tipped completely over. It landed on the pavement with a tremendous smash that cracked Joe's head into the roof of the cab. The van skidded along on its side, sparks flying. The van finally slid to a standstill fifty yards down the road.

The police cars screeched to a halt around the van with their sirens still screaming deafeningly through the night.

. . . . .

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Abrams smiled his whimsical smile at Joe.

"Oh, you bet. I wouldn't miss this." And Joe smiled back despite the bandage around his head and a throbbing headache.

Joe and Abrams were standing in the yard at police headquarters in front of a pile of cardboard boxes.

"Well, this is the shipment from the van - or what's left of it," Abrams said. "Let's see what's inside." He gestured to a uniformed officer who promptly pulled out a penknife and cut open the first box on the stack. He ripped the top off, pulling through the heavy staples. Joe smiled faintly to himself, remembering those staples.

Finally, the officer opened the flaps of the lid and bent them back. Joe and Abrams stepped forward eagerly. "Well, it looks like . . . it's a bunch of . . . coffee mugs?" Abrams picked up a white ceramic mug with a long curving handle. He looked at it closely and then at arms' length. "Joe, what . . .?"

Joe had an identical mug in his hand. "Hmmm, no good at a fence . . . there's no market for these . . ."

"Maybe Slugg switched up the shipment, or Jacobs . . .?" Abrams voice trailed off as he peered into the box. "Open the rest of them up," he ordered. "Let's see if they're all the same."

Meanwhile, Joe was inspecting the mug minutely. Suddenly his eyes brightened. He kneeled down and cracked the mug sharply onto the pavement. The mug immediately shattered into splinters and Joe began digging through them eagerly.

"Joe, what are you doing? That's impounded property -" Abrams stopped as Joe jumped up with a chunk of ceramic in his hand and held it up to Abrams with a triumphant grin. Embedded in the ceramic was a glistening red gem.

"I bet that's a real ruby," Joe said.

. . . . .

"Every mug had a gem in it," Abrams said. He was sitting in front of the desk in Joe's musty office the next day. "And you were right, they were all real. A pretty haul, for sure."

"What's going to happen to Slugg? I've got him to thank for this headache, crazy knucklehead."

"Oh, he's got a few things to deal with, like police evasion, resisting arrest . . . that's all until we find out his share of the racket. I tend to think he was pretty much on the outside."

"Did you turn up anything at Jacobs's place?"

"Oh, no, we never do. The judges always stall on search warrants for that place. The Silver Palace was as clean as a whistle. As usual. Jake has some powerful friends."

Joe's eyes glinted. "City Hall?"

"Higher than that, I think. Speaking of which, you'd better watch your back, Mr. Diamond. Jacobs doesn't like to be crossed."

"Yeah well," Joe smiled wearily, "neither do I. He lifted my revolver, you know, and I never got it back." Joe spoke lightly, but his eyes hardened as he remembered what he could never forget - Maria Luciano, dead in his arms on his doorstep.

Abrams chuckled. "You'll have to settle with him the next time you meet."

"I will."

. . . . .

THE END

2008-10-27T12:17:00.000-07:00

****4****

The Silver Palace was packed with people. It was the city's biggest night club, and this was Friday night. A band was playing in a back corner, the dance floor was a moving mass of humanity, and the din of hundreds of people talking and laughing rose up from the crowd and filled the air.

A plushly carpeted stairway led from the main floor to a landing that overlooked the crowd. Behind a tall mahogany door in the center, Jake Jacobs was sitting behind a wide, polished desk, smiling at Joe Diamond and Thaddeus Slugg. Jacobs had a long, slow smile, with wide light eyes. His clothes were immaculately tailored in the latest fashion and his high forehead and long nose made him look like anything but a gangster. Joe's revolver was on the desk in front of him.

"Really, Mr. Diamond, this is a pleasure," he drawled. "I've heard so much about you, you know, and I was always hoping we would . . . what shall I say? . . . run into each other some day." He laughed in a slow, elegant "heh-heh-heh."

Joe was looking very unfriendly as he glared back at Jacobs. "Yeah, Jacobs, it's great, like old home week."

"And you, sir," Jacobs looked at Slugg, "this really is an unexpected pleasure. When we . . . what shall I say? . . . expanded the ventilation system at your employer's antique store last week, we had no idea the old boy himself was inside. That was a . . . what shall I say? . . . an unfortunate accident, of course." Jacobs laughed again, his light eyes twinkling. He picked up Joe's revolver and admired the light glinting off the barrel.

"It was very fortunate - for you - and it wasn't an accident," Joe growled.

Jacobs swung around in his chair to look at Joe. He looked for a moment, then smiled engagingly. "Really, Mr. Diamond, you seem to be in an unhappy temper tonight. And that's really too bad, you know, because I'd like to have a nice chat with you and you don't seem very . . . what shall I say? . . . chatty tonight."

"Oh, I like to talk," Joe replied, "but not in mixed company." He jerked his head around the room. A tall thin man was lounging by the door, and a wide, fat man in a burgundy vest was leaning on the wall behind the desk.

Jacobs looked at Joe, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He put the revolver back on the desk. Then he said: "Gentlemen, would you be so good as to step downstairs for a moment? Tell Dusty I might be needing his . . .uh . . . services soon."

The two men immediately headed to the mahogany door behind Joe. The smoke and din from the dance floor blared into the room for a moment, then returned to a dull roar as the door closed behind them with a faint click. Jacobs smiled and held up a finger. "Of course, we can't forget . . . Suzanne, my dear, would you come out here please?"

A tall, dark woman with masses of shining black hair piled high on her head appeared through a folding door. She wore a shimmering red gown that was very tight and very low cut. Her dark eyes were sultry as they fell over the three men and landed on Jacobs. "Would you mind stepping out for a moment, my dear?" Jacobs caught her hand as she turned to go. "The back way, if you please."

She paused and looked at Joe and Slugg, then down at Jacobs. Her lipstick red lips twisted into a smirk. Then she disentagled her hand from Jacobs's and stalked behind the desk. She opened a tall, thin door that blended into the paneling on the wall and disappeared. Jacobs chuckled softly as he surveyed Joe and Slugg's faces. "Suzanne is . . . what shall I say? . . . decorative, isn't she?"

"Maria Luciano's replacement, I suppose," Joe said. "I guess you like 'em dark, huh?"

"Mr. Diamond," Jacobs put his elbows on his desk and placed his fingertips together judiciously. "It seems to me that you know a great deal about my personal affairs - "

"Well, I consider it my business to keep tabs on all the thugs in town. It saves time and limits guesswork . . . plus, it impresses the cops."

"Does it?"

"Yep."

"The police in this town are indescribably idiotic. Impressing them is no great feat, I assure you, Mr. Diamond."

Joe shrugged.

Jacobs went on: "But the purpose of having you gentlemen brought here was not to discuss our town's law enforcement. What I need to understand is how much either of you know about Mr. Halsey and the, uh . . . what shall I say? . . . operation he was running from his little antique shop."

"I - I didn't know anything, anything at all, M-Mr. Jacobs," Slugg

stammered.

"Unfortunately, that seems highly unlikely, Mr. . . .uh . . . Slugg."

"There's one thing I'd like to know."

"Yes, Mr. Diamond?"

"Why did you knock off Halsey? Was he trying to cut you out, or what?"

"Possibly . . . we realized our shipments were coming up short every time. But we have all Halsey's merchandise now."

Slugg jumped. "You - you do? You have it all?"

"Of course. It's still in the van in the garage."

"You can't have it!" Slugg shrieked. He pulled at his wild hair, the picture of distress. "You can't! You can't! If that shipment isn't delivered - -"

Slugg suddenly jumped at Jacobs's desk and grabbed Joe's revolver. "You

can't!" He wrenched open the door behind Joe and ran wildly out and

down the stairs.

Joe and Jacobs looked at each other.

"Well, Mr. Diamond," Jacobs drawled, "that's really too bad. Mr. Slugg

took the only gun in the room, and now we won't be able to see who's

quicker on the draw." He chuckled to himself.

"I think the day will come," Joe said. The room outside suddenly erupted

into screams and shouting. Two gunshots rang out, then an entire volley.

Jacobs wrenched open a desk drawer and scrabbled inside.

But Joe was faster. He grabbed the desk with both hands and upended it

onto Jacobs. The chair collapsed under Jacobs and the desk lamp struck

him in the head. Joe paused in his flight to the back door in the paneling. He realized that Jacobs was stunned from the fall. Joe jumped to the wreckage of the desk and yanked up the telephone. He quickly dialed a number

as he tensely listened to the racket outside - more screams and gunshots.

"Hello, Alberts? Alberts, this is Diamond. I'm at the Silver Palace . . . yeah, and hurry."

Joe heard feet pounding up the staircase outside. He slammed down the

receiver and ran to the back wall. He found the door and slipped through

seconds before the mahogany door of the office flew open.

Joe found himself on a dimly lit, narrow stairway. He flew down the steps and came whirling around a corner. Suzanne was lounging lazily against the wall, a cigarette in hand. She looked at Joe expressionlessly.

Joe paused before he passed her. "You know he'll kill you when he's through with you, don't you?"

Her teeth flashed brilliant white in a sudden, wide smile. "Unless I kill him first."

Gunshots roared out from beneath their feet. "What's going on?" She demanded.

Joe brushed past her and continued down the stairway. A wooden door at the end opened into a dark place with a cement floor. It was reeking with gunsmoke and Joe realized he must be in the garage when he heard an engine roar into life.

"There he goes!" Someone yelled. A gunshot cracked through the darkness. Joe ducked down behind a pile of old tires as a group of men poured from a bright doorway into the garage. Joe ran around the tires and saw the old moving van, with Thaddeus Slugg at the wheel. The van had rumbled to life and Joe heard gears grinding. Joe ran to the passenger door, ripped it open and fell inside.

"Get out of here, will you?" He gasped.

Slugg rammed the van in gear and roared from the garage, as a deafening hail of gunfire exploded from the garage behind him. Glass shattered and the sides of the van rattled and rang from bullets.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

2008-10-19T23:56:00.000-07:00

****3****

The back room of the antique shop still smelled faintly of smoke. Joe Diamond kept the beam of his flashlight low as he picked his way around fallen beams and remnants of charred furniture. This room was the back office and hadn't been damaged by the explosion like the main showroom out front. The air was heavy and cold. Just like the night they blew out the joint, Joe thought. Except it had been raining then.

Joe's light flashed onto the corner of a cardboard box along the back wall. The box looked like the ones he saw being loaded into the van on the night of the explosion. The entire back wall was stacked high with similar boxes. Joe wondered if some sort of shipment had been interrupted by the explosion. And if so, he wondered why Jacobs and his gang hadn't gotten to them by now.

Joe set his light down on the floorboards and pulled one of the boxes off a stack. He nearly staggered under its weight. It thudded onto the floor when Joe set it down, despite his attempts at silence. He grumbled when he saw it was stapled shut, and started rummaging in his pockets for a pocket knife. He had one hand in his vest pocket and the other in his jacket's outside pocket when he heard a sudden sharp click from the back door of the shop, less than five feet away from where he stood. Joe froze, listening for a moment; then he slipped across the room in the inky darkness, and ducked behind a counter that ran along the far wall. His flashlight was in one hand and his revolver ready in the other.

There was another click from the door and a rustling sound. The door rattled and then suddenly snapped open. Dim, yellow light from a streetlight outside streamed in, and Joe saw a man's head silhouetted in shadow, peering into the dark room. The man stepped in and whisked the door shut behind him. Joe could see nothing through the darkness, but he heard the man breathing, heavy, shaky breaths. Then slow footsteps through the room, but not coming closer to Joe; then a click and the room lit up.

Joe peeked over the counter and saw a thin, slight man standing at a desk in the corner. He had just snapped on a desk lamp. The man had wild, unruly hair and thick glasses. He peered slowly around the room and Joe ducked down again, barely in time. He dared to look again when he heard papers rustling. The man was looking through papers piled up on the desk, looking with feverish haste, his heavy breathing rattling through the room. Joe decided his moment had come.

"Hello," Joe said, straightening up behind the counter.

The man dropped the papers with a shriek and whirled around. He looked at Joe and gasped. Sweat was pouring off his face and his hands were trembling. Joe smiled.

The man put one of his shaking hands on the desk behind him and straightened his hunched posture. "Who - who are you?" His voice quavered and his features twitched with agitation.

Joe chuckled. "Well, now, I was just going to ask you that question," he said. "You realize that breaking into a site of a police investigation is highly illegal, don't you? And I caught you in the act, didn't I?" Joe was still smiling.

The man seemed to deflate again as he clutched at the desk behind him for support. "Oh, but I wasn't, I wasn't breaking and - and - what you said, officer, I - I work here, or that is, I used to-"

"Who are you?"

"My name is Thaddeus Slugg, officer, and I was Mr. Halsey's - "

"Thaddeus what?"

"Slugg, sir, that's my name." He blinked at Joe earnestly from behind his thick glasses.

"I'm sorry," Joe said, shaking his head. "Go ahead . . . you were saying?"

"I was Mr. Halsey's administrative assistant, for this shop. Here," he picked up a business card off the desk and held it out to Joe.

Joe stepped forward cautiously and took the card from the trembling fingertips. Sure enough, it read: 'Thaddeus Slugg, Administrative Assistant, Halsey's Olde Worlde Antiques.' Joe shook his head again. "Alright, well, what name do you go by, pal? Thad, Thaddeus, Slugg, or maybe Mr. Slugg?"

A wispy smile appeared briefly on the other man's face. "Mr. Slugg, if you please," he said with dignity.

"Okay, Mr. Slugg, why don't you tell me why you broke a police order and busted into here tonight?"

"Well, officer, I - " suddenly Slugg's head jerked up at something behind Joe. "Oh!" he gasped. At the same moment, Joe heard a low voice growl from behind him:

"Drop it, Diamond, and turn around with your hands up, real slow . . ."

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

2008-10-13T20:04:00.000-07:00

****2****

Luciano's was a cozy Italian diner on the corner of Fourth and B Street. It was the kind of place that served spaghetti and meatballs at tables covered with red and white checked tablecloths. Each table was lit by a flickering five-cent candle in a red bubble glass holder that gleamed feebly through the restaurant's dim interior.

Joe Diamond was seated at a table in the back corner. He was here for more than spaghetti. The waitress was busy; she hadn't taken Joe's order yet. But she came up to his table presently, and pulled an order pad from her apron. She was slight and dark. Her black hair matched her eyes. Joe recognized her as the woman he had seen leaving the antique shop.

"What can I get for you tonight, sir?" She asked, pen poised alertly over her pad. But her soft voice was tired and Joe saw her face was drooping with fatigue. He felt a moment of the pity he felt for all waitresses.

"House special," he said, gesturing towards a placard next to the candle on the table. Her pen scratched on the paper. "And water with that. By the way," before she could leave, "on my way here I saw a shop down the street all burned out. Was there a fire or something?"

She flushed, but only barely. "No, there was a - an explosion of some kind."

"Oh, a gas leak?"

"No, the police don't think so, but I really don't know. I've - I've got to put your order in -" and she hurried into the kitchen, the doors swinging behind her long after she pushed through them.

When she came back with the water, Joe started in again. "Say, was anyone hurt in that explosion?" He already knew, of course.

The waitress's face was whiter than Joe thought it could be. "The- the owner - is missing, but I don't know if - "

"Oh, that's too bad," Joe said, shaking his head sorrowfully. "Too bad . . . say, you know," he cocked an inquisitive eye at her, "I just might look into that little business. I'm a P.I., you see."

"Oh, oh, really?" Her face was flushed again and she gave Joe a sharp, curious glance. "How interesting," she added, as if it was the most boring thing in the world. But she gave Joe another quick, enquiring glance before she retreated to the kitchen again. Joe smiled and left her alone from there, but he left his card with the tip.

.......

Joe flopped into the chair behind his desk with a sigh. The old chair groaned a complaint but Joe ignored it. He leaned farther back and propped his feet up on his desk, and then he stared up at the ceiling blankly. It was an old, stained ceiling, and the lamp suspended over his head was covered with dust. The few pieces of furniture in the little room seemed to be competing with each other for dustiness and untidiness. Despite two tall, shining black filing cabinets, papers cluttered the desk, the chair opposite the desk, and spilled into piles on the floor. Joe sighed again and his eyes became abstracted as he thought about the waitress.

When there was a knock on his door, Joe didn't move, except to say gruffly, "Come in." When the door creaked open he looked up and saw a small, graying man with furry eyebrows and an easy smile. He was Lieutenant Alberts of the local police department. "Oh, hi Al," Joe said. "Take a seat, if you'd like."

"Thanks, I would," Alberts still wore that whimsical smile as he transferred a pile of papers from the chair to the floor before he sat down. "Say, Joe, how've you been?"

"Oh, keeping . . . but what are you up to?"

"Do I have to be up to something?"

Joe shifted his gaze the ceiling. "Al, you never turn up around here, and especially not at ten o'clock at night, unless something's up." He turned his glance back to the lieutenant. "So what's up?"

Alberts sighed and stirred restlessly in his chair. "Well, Joe . . . have you been down to Fourth Street lately?"

Joe looked back up at the ceiling. "I get around. Are you talking about that antique shop Jacobs and his gang blew out last week?"

The lieutenant's gaze sharpened and his smile widened. "Oh, so you heard about that?"

Joe smiled. "Yeah, I heard about that."

"And you think Jacobs did it, eh?"

"Maybe." Joe shrugged. "I think I'll - " suddenly he rolled back his chair and sat up alertly. He saw a van, an old moving van, pulling up in front of his office through the dirty window across from his desk. A small dark woman got out of the passenger seat. She disappeared from view as she walked up the steps to the office building's front door. Joe was on his feet. "Maybe we'll learn more in a minute," he said as he brushed by the police lieutenant.

Quick steps sounded in the hallway outside Joe's door, but then came a confusion of noise: a door slammed, brakes screeched, a woman screamed. Joe wrenched his door open in time to hear three gunshots rip through the night. The woman, the waitress from Luciano's, fell to the floor. Joe was by her side in an instant, turning her over amidst the blood-stained shards of glass that had been the front office windows. Her face was frozen in surprise. She was dead.

The police lieutenant stepped over Joe and ran to the street, his revolver glinting in his hand. A car engine was revved up and it roared away as more gunshots rang out. The lieutenant ran back inside where Joe was gently replacing the woman's body where she had fallen. He looked up at the lieutenant with black smoldering eyes and a face hardened into granite.

"I'm calling for back-up," the lieutenant said hoarsely as he picked up a phone.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

2008-10-08T23:29:00.000-07:00

***1***

The rain was coming down in sheets, overflowing the gutters and flooding onto the street from the drainpipes. The man leaning in the shadow of the doorway could barely see across the dark street through the rain. He didn't seem to mind the rain much; his felt hat was pulled low over his eyes and the collar of his gray trench coat was turned up. The rain ran off the hat's brim and dripped down his coat, but he didn't move. His eyes were dark; that was about all of his face that could be seen as he lounged in the shadows. He was watching. But Joe Diamond didn't mind watching, and waiting. In his business he did a lot of both.

Across the street, dimly lit by a steetlight, a moving van was standing in front of an antique shop. The shop wasn't open this late, but a light glowed in the back. The minutes ticked by as Joe Diamond waited in the shadows and the rain softened to a drizzle. Then suddenly the door of the antique shop opened; first a sliver of light appeared that widened slowly. A man's head peered out into the deserted street, looking cautiously both ways. The next moment the man stepped into the street. He was so tall he looked like he belonged in a circus. Extremely tall with big feet and a long drooping face. Across the street in shadows, Joe stood motionless. Only his dark eyes glittered as they moved, watching. His mind worked like a police blotter, the words echoing in his head like a typewriter clattering in an empty room: "Male, 6'5 feet at least, 190, slim, brown hair, black raincoat, gray pants."

The tall man was carrying a box that looked too heavy for him. He stumped up to the back of the moving van, yanked open a creaking door and the box thudded inside. Joe watched as the man loaded box after box into the van. The rain had become a mist and Joe could hear the man muttering to himself as he worked, his footsteps loud in the empty street. Once the man paused and cocked his head, listening. Joe listened too and heard the murmur of muffled voices. The tall man dragged his steps back to the store, and when he opened the door of the shop, Joe heard a man's voice, loud and hoarse with anger: "What do you mean coming here like this? You know better than to-"

The door closed and Joe heard no more. The tall man reappeared, this time with keys tinkling in his hand. He locked the back of the van and then folded himself into the driver's seat. The rumble of the engine filled the street and the van roared away. Quietness descended on the street, but not for long.

A moment later, the doorway of the shop opened again. Slowly, cautiously, a woman stepped out onto the sidewalk. Small, slight, with dark hair shining under her wide-brimmed hat. "Female, 5'2, 115, black on black, brown coat, light brown hat," Joe's brain recorded. The woman glanced up and down the street. She was breathing hard, her eyes were wide and blinking fast. She set off down the street, her steps quick and small, pattering through the empty night.

Her steps had barely faded when suddenly Joe jumped as an explosion ripped through the night with a deep boom. The entire front of the antique store blasted out into the street. Shattered glass and torn splinters of wood littered the street and fire sizzled in the rain around the black, smoking crater that was the antique store a moment before. Across the street, the dancing flames reflecting in his eyes, Joe Diamond smiled; a twisted, leer of a smirk as gray smoke billowed into the cold, damp night.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

2008-10-05T21:45:00.000-07:00

I apologize for my prolonged hiatus. I have a tendency to do things in spurts . . . which can sometimes be useful, but usually has unfortunate side effects. I have kept a journal for years . . . probably for ten years at least by now . . . and it suffers from similar lapses.

......

I was seated as a delegate this weekend . . . not as a delegate to anything Republican, but as a delegate to the Nevada Dental Hygiene Association's House of Delegates.

The NDHA isn't too big in Nevada, so there were only twenty-five delegates. The whole experience was considerably less intimidating and more friendly than the last infamous convention put together by our state party.

In fact, there were a few notable differences between the NDHA convention and our state Republican convention (the April 26th edition):

- the NDHA had a registered parliamentarian to oversee the proceedings according to Robert's Rules of Order

- delegates to the NDHA were given a copy of the rules, as well as all proposed bylaw changes and resolutions, almost a week in advance

- nominations from the floor were accepted at the NDHA convention; no rules changes required

- the chair at the NDHA did not claim to making up the rules as she went along

- the speaker at the NDHA was a Democrat (Jill Derby, who was a hygienist for thirty-five years). Any reports that Dick Cheney spoke at this event are entirely untrue - he was at a Wildlife Conference at the Silver Legacy.

- the NDHA had a printed agenda distributed to the delegates, before the meeting, which was actually followed

- the ballots cast at the NDHA were all counted, not locked up in the hotel's safe

- the business for the NDHA convention was planned for two days

- the NDHA did not turn off the lights, cut power to the microphones, or leave delegates shocked and standing in the dark at any time during the NDHA convention

- the NDHA leadership did not flee the room (or encourage others to do so) in an attempt to break quorum

- the business of the NDHA convention was conducted legally and to completion; the delegates' voices were heard on all the issues.

- the NDHA delegates voted to legally adjourn the meeting.

Overall, after the Nevada State Republican Convention on April 26th, the NDHA House of Delegates meeting was really a rather tame experience.

I haven't seen such strict dedication to the rules and laws, such foresightful organization, or such determination to respect the rights of delegates since June 28th, when the Republican delegates called the stalled state convention out of recess and legally finished the business.

......

2008-09-29T19:57:00.000-07:00

Well, what a day this has been!

Very interesting that the bailout did NOT pass. I think this is good news for the American people. Isn't it nice to feel that your voice might still have at least a little bit of effect? Isn't it nice to feel that if the sleeping giant that is the American people makes a big enough fuss, they still have to listen to us? I love to think of the phones blasting off the wall and faxes piling up in the offices of those Representatives. Way to go, America!

I have a mental image of the American people like a great sleeping giant . . . like a Gulliver, being slowed trussed up by the Lilliputians. Most of the time, the giant is very passive and does nothing as the little fiends dance around, knotting the ropes . . . but once in awhile, they pull too hard or too fast or too tight . . . and the giant rumbles, opens an eye (barely) and jerks back.

This was one of those times.

Those congressman in the House of Reps are the most directly answerable to the people of any federal elected official. I think that's why there seems to be an on-going concerted effort to strip Congress of so many of its powers.

......

Another very interesting facet to this story has been the media's coverage of it. Yesterday it was almost as if the bailout was a done deal . . . it seemed to be almost an accepted fact. So I thought I'd turn on the national news and see what they had to say this evening.

Brian Williams of NBC started out the broadcast in a melodramatic tone (but then, of course, isn't he usually melodramatic?) . . . "Well, the President of the United States warned the American people that economic disaster would result if the bailout didn't pass, and today the U.S. House of Representatives failed to pass the bailout."

The markets fell on cue, of course, down 777 points, a 7% drop.

......

Watch out for this bill to come back soon, under a new name, when no one is watching, and be quietly passed. Or, they'll slice it up into pieces and tack them onto other bills and get them through that way.

At least they couldn't ramrod this one down our throats.

......

2008-09-26T12:54:00.000-07:00

There's a lady in Reno who makes political buttons. She designs the buttons, makes them by hand, and appears with her buttons at all events political around town. She has McCain buttons, Obama buttons, "End the Fed" buttons, anti-NAU buttons, and (my favorite) "America: Where are we going, and why are we in this handbasket?" buttons, to name a few.

Apparently she has a surplus of Obama buttons and decided that she might be able to sell them to the Democratic Party HQ. So she called them up and asked if they had any Obama buttons . . . and the lady on the phone replied despairingly that she wished they did - "everyone is asking for them" - but they hadn't been sent any. So, the enterprising button lady packs up her Obama buttons and heads to the Democratic HQ.

When she got there, she explained that she had Obama buttons to sell. The lady at the front desk was delighted, but then asked: "Are they union-made?" No, the button lady explained that she made them herself. "Oh, but we can't take them unless they're union-made," the receptionist replied. And they stuck to it after checking with some other people in the office . . . they could not take the buttons, because they weren't union-made.

Can you imagine, if Obama gets elected, the layers of bureaucracy that will be in place? Maybe it won't be a bad thing . . . maybe none of his socialist programs will ever get anything done.

......

So what did everyone think of John McCain's dramatic announcement this week that he would "suspend his campaign", and that the debates should be canceled so the economy can be fixed? As though McCain knows how to fix the economy . . .

But it was an interesting political move. It put Obama in a bit of a spot: he had to either follow McCain's lead (and thereby make McCain look like a leader), or refuse to cancel the debate, and look like he doesn't care about the economy. Faced with those choices, Obama chose the better of the two options and said the debate would go on. McCain, of course, couldn't just not show up and let Obama have the place to himself, so McCain now says he'll go after all.

So now I'm starting to wonder if it was such a good gamble on McCain's part. I imagine McCain will come out of the gates full of righteous indignation at this debate . . . he'll probably bring up the economy first thing (whether the questioners mention it or not), and expound about how he really should be back in D. C. saving the country, but his opponent insisted on being small-minded and having a debate while Rome burns.

What else can he say?

......

I was rather shocked by some of President Bush's language in his speech about the economy. Perhaps, after all this time, I really should expect this, but . . . he was threatening us. Do you realize that? 'America, you'd better support this bailout, or else' seemed to be his main theme. He said: "Without immediate action by Congress, America could slip into financial panic . . . More banks could fail, including some in your own community." He's trying to scare us into submission. That's a classic thug tactic: make your threats personal. Don't just say bad things might happen, say . . . your house will burn down - your car will explode - we'll go after your family . . .

That a President of the United States of America should use such tactics against his own people is despicable.

But then, so many of the policies of this administration are based on fear . . . our foreign policy certainly has been put through with all the fear of the terrorists and terror attacks driving it. Now our monetary policy will apparently be driven by fear as well.

......

Our local newspaper loves using the propaganda technique of "everyone thinks this way, so shouldn't you?" Case in point: the headline from yesterday's paper was "President Gets High Marks for Speech". The article interviews various people who thought Bush's speech was wonderful . . . and the obvious intended impact is to sway the reader to think that way, too.

Very basic propaganda, and almost every media outlet does it. But the Reno Gazette-Journal does it all the time.

......

2008-09-24T22:16:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm writing this live from Lamppost Pizza. We had a meeting here tonight, for all of those Ron Paul radicals that still heavily populate this Nevada of ours.

People are talking around me . . . low, continuous murmurings from around the room as groups of patriots are in deep conversation about the state of our country . . . where we're going and where we need to be going . . . the staff are slowly cleaning up around us, turning out the lights and mopping the floors . . . the crowd that packed the room is pretty thin now . . . Aimee Allen's sultry voice is singing "Summertime" to Jimmie Vaughn's guitar, memories from our trip to Minnesota . . .

These are the kinds of people and this is the kind of place where people can plan to change the world. These are the same people who made the commitment back in December and January to dive into a political system that they had never been in before . . . because they believed in a beautiful word bigger than every one of us . . . freedom. These are incredible people. I have the deepest respect for them, and I am so proud to be counted a part of their number. These are the people that worked and planned and made countless phone calls . . . the people that loved Ron Paul so much that they dedicated so much of their lives to supporting him.

The people who came to our party tonight are some of the real diehards, although I know there's a lot more of them out there.

They are still looking to change the world.

2008-09-22T19:55:00.000-07:00

An economics professor of mine had an interesting term for his theory of economics . . . instead of "trickle down," he called it "percolate up." I thought it made a lot of sense, the basic theory being:

If the "little people" in the economic system had more money to spend, that increased affluence would spread throughout the economy. Think about it: if the money you paid in income taxes this year was in your bank account instead of in the IRS coffers, couldn't you think of a few ways to spend it? I know I could.

That's why tax cuts - real, significant tax cuts - can grow an economy. If people have more money to spend, they're more likely to buy that new bike, or go out to dinner, or get some dental work done. That, in turns, gives profit to some more little people: the guy who owns the bike shop, the people who run the restaurant, and the dentist. That helps give jobs to those people and all the people they employ and need to run their businesses. The profit spreads out to all kinds of businesses and people simply through one transaction . . . think of that on a larger scale, and you can see what a boost for an economy little people with money to spend can be; the wealth and profit will percolate up and up and out and all over.

At the same time, it works the other way, too . . . when people don't have money to spend, they start cutting back all over, and that gets felt all over. I heard today that two local franchise restaurants are closing their doors . . . if you have any sympathy to spare, you might want to think about small business owners.

......

Unfortunately, a large number of the American people vote according to a couple of ridiculous premises . . . either they vote for the person they think will win (thus apparently confusing the election of a president with horse racing) or they vote for "the lesser of two evils" and put themselves in a very false moral position.

......

Nevada's own, home-grown Senator let loose with another of his gems the other day in regards to the current economic problems. Harry Reid, Senate majority leader, said the other day that

no one "knows what to do".

Actually there is someone, Harry. His name is Ron Paul and he works right there in Washington D.C, too, just like you do, Harry. Ron Paul could have told you . . . in fact, he did tell the world that this economic crash was coming . . . a long, long, time ago.

Whenever I'm tempted to laugh at other states for their representation in Congress, the thought of Harry Reid squelches me before I start.

.....

2008-09-19T13:18:00.000-07:00

As I'm sure many of you have seen, the motto for the McCain/Palin ticket is "Country First."

What does that mean, exactly? For starters, the country isn't specified . . . it's not 'America' or 'USA'. The word "country" is simply a geo-political term, of a piece of land with borders of some kind. So, for starters, the first word of the motto is very vague.

The second word isn't much better. So we're supposed to put the unnamed, vague country first, ahead of . . . what? Freedom? Liberty? The Constitution? Family? Our car payment? Having a peanut butter sandwich for lunch?

"Country First" is a meaningless motto that could be used by any country at any time to justify anything. Of course, probably mottos employed by campaigns are not really important in the big scheme of things . . . but I find it interesting that this campaign has chosen a motto that is so completely meaningless and jingoistic.

......

I saw a headline on MSNBC that said "Fears Grow of Terrorist With an American Face." This is an interesting headline right off the bat . . . what exactly, after all, is an "American" face? If you read the article, you'll realize that they're referring to white people . . . and do you suppose that might be offensive to all the Americans who aren't white? Oh, you're not white, so you don't have an American face.

But the point that's really scary about this article is that this is the logic/propaganda they will use to treat us all like terrorists. Of course, they already do that to some extent . . . for instance, at airports where everyone is treated as guilty until proven innocent. But this will be used as the excuse to bring down martial law hard on everyone. You won't be less of a suspect because of your "white face." Now they'll have to watch everyone just as closely . . . not just dark skinned foreigners anymore, but people with light skin, people who were born here, people like every person reading these words . . .

......

Well, today is my birthday . . . I'm twenty-four years old today. And there, you have just read what will probably be the last time I ever post my age publicly.

If any of you have Ron Paul's book "Foreign Policy of Freedom," you'll see that he gave a speech on the day I was born, September 19, 1984, on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives. If you have a moment, that speech is an amazing read . . . amazing because it sounds so much like his speeches today, and amazing because so much of what he predicted has since come true.

2008-09-17T21:57:00.000-07:00

I read a new phrase being used by a popular columnist: "anticipatory self-defense". What a nice, pat little way to say preemptive war. "Anticipatory self-defense" sounds very moral, doesn't it? Can't you imagine a neo-con declaring that we all have the the right of "anticipatory self-defense"?

That phrase could be used to describe the entire Bush doctrine of starting wars across the world: we're sure this nation is going to attack us, so, we'll attack them first. I remember Ron Paul saying that the trend of preemptive war was one of the most disturbing morality shifts in America.

The proponents of "anticipatory self-defense" would undoubtedly make the argument that if our President had rock-solid intelligence that our nation was about to be attacked, they would have a moral duty to protect this nation and strike first. That argument sounds plausible on the face of it, doesn't it? For instance, if FDR knew about the Pearl Harbor attack (I'm using that 'if' for the sake of argument, you understand) wouldn't he have had a moral obligation to stop that attack?

It's so hard to win arguments when they branch into the theoretical. The neo-cons will do that . . . frame the debate illogically, condense it down and throw it at you like a brick. They'll just come out and say "there's an imminent threat, should we stop it?" . . . but there's no way the question could really be that simple. There would have to be an entire line of policies and occurrences to lead up to such an attack being launched. It would be the part of a good executive - a President Paul, for instance - to keep us out of such a situation in the first place. Neo-cons use a similar argument to justify torture: "well, if you know the guy's a terrorist and it could save a million lives . . ." First of all, how could we know that? . . . besides, torture does not produce real information. A person being tortured will say whatever they can to satisfy their captors. It's not like in the movies, folks.

"Anticipatory self-defense" . . . so if that guy across the street might be a gangbanger coming to shoot you, you can nail him as he walks down the sidewalk? If he enters your property or threatens you, that's obviously something else; like if another country actually started rolling tanks across the border into El Paso or sailing destroyers into San Francisco Bay.

"Anticipatory self-defense" almost sounds like an oxymoron, but its really some slick propaganda condensed into three words.

The Tuesday Girl

2008-09-16T15:27:00.000-07:00

Well, today was my first official day working as a registered dental hygienist. My license was in the mailbox when we got back from our Minnesota trip, so now I'm the Tuesday girl at my Dad's office.

I haven't framed my license yet, but I was thinking about all the work signified by that piece of paper. I remember all the early morning drives to school, often before the sun was up . . . I was almost always very tired, but coming down out of the hills in the early morning light was usually a beautiful drive. The sad thing is that I was so anxious about school that I didn't enjoy those views as much as I might have.

So many early mornings, so many late nights at school . . . home became a place that I only dimly saw at dinner-time before collapsing in bed . . . only to get up and do it over again the next day. So many papers, assignments, projects, tests, tests, and more tests! All leading up to a few huge, terribly important tests: the national board exam and the state board exam.

How glad I am that those days are over! Maybe it's better to try and forget . . .

Another Monday . . .

2008-09-15T20:26:00.000-07:00

Well, Monday is almost gone . . . here's something to cheer up anyone who's had a rough day.

I think this is probably my all time favorite YouTube:

Laughing Baby

There is something really wonderful about a baby's laugh . . . so much joy.

......

Our Nevada game wardens have been working diligently to protect us from illegal . . . frogs. Yes, that's right, apparently some folks have been buying some sort of African frog tadpole via the internet . . . and our game wardens have been rather xenophobic about the whole affair. They say the tadpoles grow into monstrous spotted beasties that destroy ecosystems.

......

The term "beastie" makes me think of Robert Burns and his description of a mouse:
"wee, sleekit, timrous beastie". . .

Now is that a description, or what?

......

Our County Commissioner Bob Larkin wants to put another streetlight on Pyramid Way. I've lived out there about three years, and I think there are now three more lights since we moved.

The new light is being proposed because of the median that blocks northern traffic from turning into the (flying saucer/horse barn looking) library, and doesn't allow traffic from the library to turn south.

Why, oh why, can't we simply eliminate the median and save ourselves all the trouble and expense of another streetlight?

And that library does look like a combination of a flying saucer and a horse-barn.

......

2008-09-13T16:06:00.000-07:00

Well, fall is here, and with fall comes the opening of the college football season. There is something about college football that makes it very fun to watch; I think the pageantry, enthusiasm, and excitement that surrounds college football, as well as the game itself, combine into something very special.

I can never think of college football without remembering the few times I got to see games at Husky Stadium in Seattle. I remember one day when I was about nine years old. We got up early and packed a lunch, then drove and parked and loaded onto a bus. It was one of those extended buses with the rubber joint in the middle, which I found particularly fascinating.

I remember the walk after the bus, through the streets of the U district, in a stream of Husky fans decked out in purple and gold. The streams of fans combined into a huge flood the closer we got to the stadium. I remember the damp crispness of the air, the sodden autumn leaves underfoot, the smell of a wet board fence. All around me was enthusiasm and excitement, shining in the happy faces and the continuous hum of voices.

We ate our sandwiches in a little park on Lake Washington. Lines of boats and yachts, streaming purple and gold and packed with Husky fans, passed by the park on their way to the stadium. I was too excited to sit around after lunch, so while the grown-ups were still eating, I had fun watching the boats and exploring the park with the trees and water all around, so fascinating to a kid from the Nevada desert.

Some people on the boats waved at me as they sailed by. Finally, I got my courage up, and when another yacht came sailing slowly by - a big, double decker, shining brilliantly white in the sunshine over the sparkling water, streaming Husky colors and alive with fans crowded on both decks - I yelled "Go Huskies!'

I will never forget the response. A huge voice of a couple hundred people answered me in screams, yells, noise-makers and bells ringing wildly, and one, massive "GO HUSKIES!!!" Then the boat's deep, throaty whistle let roar amid the cheers, and the little nine year old who started it was never so delighted, red-faced, or embarrassed in all her life.

I've got to go now. . . the kickoff is only a few minutes away. For the first time in quite a few years, I can watch a football game without feeling guilty about neglected homework, so I'm looking forward to this.

GO HUSKIES!!

2008-09-11T15:54:00.000-07:00

When I thought about what I should write today, I realized that I could not treat this day, September 11, as any other day. It is called "Patriot Day," but really it is the anniversary of a very terrible day in our nation's history. What happened that day, back in 2001, was horrendous and shocking . . . but what has happened since that day, as a result of that day, has also been very horrendous and shocking.

I suppose everyone has their own story of September 11 . . . where they were and what they were doing on that infamous day. I was sixteen years old, looking forward to my seventeenth birthday. I remember when we heard the news that the WTC towers had collapsed, my brother and I thought the reports must be wrong. There must be a mistake somewhere. Maybe they meant that the towers might fall, or that they were in danger of falling . . . because buildings like that don't just fall down, do they?

Our world has changed since that day, and I don't know if any of those changes have been for the better. If it's true that the terrorists hated us for our freedoms, as we have been told, then the terrorists have won. Look at all the freedom we have lost: we are now corralled through lines and scanning machines at the airports, where government "officials" can paw through our bags at their whim. We line up and take off our shoes for them. They tell us what we can take on the plane, how much, what size it can be, etc., much of which is completely nonsensical and would do absolutely nothing to prevent another attack.

The infamous Patriot Act has been passed, as well as other similar, more extensive pieces of legislation. Our Fourth Amendment is basically null and void. Our police have been militarized against us . . . look at the demonstrations outside the RNC and DNC. The police looked like they were in a war zone, clothed in black and bristling with clubs, tasers, and other "crowd control devices". Huge barricades lined the streets of St. Paul, and there were Army MP's walking around. Protestors are kept in "First Amendment Zones" - how I hate that phrase! These United States of America are supposed to be First Amendment Zones. And have you heard the radio ads from the CIA, trying to recruit Americans into the National Clandestine Service? Is this America we're living in?

......

As if all this was not enough, we are engaged in wars overseas . . . and you've probably all heard the "well, we've got to fight them over there or they'll fight us over here". After all, in this "post 9-11 world" Americans are afraid of everything, right?

The attacks of September 11th have had a very tragic result: they have made Americans afraid of freedom. We are afraid of the world, so we must go attack people who scare us. We are afraid of another attack, so we have the police and military on our streets to protect us. We are afraid to be free, because with freedom comes responsibility, and we don't think we can make it anymore, without the government to protect us and safeguard us. We're like a little child outside at night by themselves for the first time . . . the world is very big and scary . . . the sky is so dark and the wind is so cold . . . where's our safe playpen, where we are caged in and safe?

Free people have to take responsibility for themselves and their families. Free people are not afraid of their own shadows. Free people have documents like the U.S. Constitution that limit the powers of the government . . . they don't want the government to protect them. Free people don't see troops on their streets a symbols of safety, but instead, as symbols of tyranny. Free people don't give up freedom for promises of security. Free people believe life as a slave is not a life worth living.

"In this post 9/11 world" . . . what has happened to us?

The Big Announcement

2008-09-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

Well, Dr. Paul has done it again.

You have probably heard about his latest announcement endorsing a handful of third-party candidates, and that he refused to endorse John McCain. Here's a link if you missed it:

Paul Urges Voters to Back Third Party Candidates

Again, he has made a move that will undoubtedly anger the Republican Party leadership.
Again, he has stood against the status quo for what he thinks is right.
Again, he has refused to compromise on principle.

What a beautiful concept!

Thank you, Dr. Paul.

If all our representatives had the same dedication to principle and duty, our country would be a much better place today.

I'm sure plenty of Republicans will be upset, although perhaps not surprised.

But they never got the point, anyway. Ron Paul has always been about principle. What is the point of a party if you don't have principles?

Why should it be important to be "good Republicans" or "good Democrats"?

Shouldn't we be good Americans?

......

Home Again

2008-09-09T19:56:00.001-07:00

Yes, we're home again . . . got in on Sunday night. Our little gray and blue house nestled in the foothills of the Pah Rahs was in good shape, almost as if we were only gone for a day. Minneapolis was fun, and I saw a lot of wonderful things between here and there, but still, it's good to be home.

......

My garden didn't fare so well, unfortunately. Of course, the garden this year has had to fend for itself from the start. My time was rather taken up with other things, as you can imagine. So I planted a couple of tomato plants and set up a sprinkler, and that was about the extent of my efforts.

Anyway, over our trip, something happened to the watering system, and . . . my garden is not too happy right now. The potato plants (which had grown up and flourished on their own from last year's remnants) were withered away completely. The tomatoes fared a little better.

But that meant I got to dig potatoes today. Have you ever dug potatoes? It's actually very fun, for easily amused people like myself. I have always enjoyed having my hands in the dirt anyway, and searching for potatoes is like a little treasure hunt. I actually found quite a few, considering my chronic neglect and complete lack of effort to grow potatoes at all this year.

Potatoes grow pretty well, actually. I do what the gardening books all say you should never do: I grow them from potatoes bought from the grocery store. There are apparently all kinds of good, wise reasons why you should send away to a garden supply for seed potatoes, but . . . hey, it works for me.

......

I found a pocket Constitution with Declaration of Independence included, for sale at our local Raley's. I think I'd like to thank the buyer of that store. Maybe some fruits of the Revolution, eh?

......

I heard our local news reporting on the economy today. They mentioned that one major bank in the state closed it's doors recently, and that "experts" expect more closures to come. But, the anchor-person added brightly, there is some good news: the FDIC insurance is working, and most people aren't losing any money!

Too bad for you if you're part of the minority. Ouch!

......

Nevada is beautiful. I realized that, as we drove home. No where I saw could beat Nevada for sunsets, that's for sure. And the combination of sagebrush, mountains, bright skies and sunshine is Silver State all the way.

......

We stopped at Yellowstone National Park on the way back. I never realized before that the entire park is basically one big volcano, a "hotspot". That's what causes all the geysers, hot springs, etc.

We walked around one geyser basin which was really fascinating. They have boardwalks set up, with strict warnings not to wander off them. The signs explained that the earth is very thin in some places, and a person walking could fall right through the crust and be in hot water - literally. Or maybe in acid strong enough to eat through shoes. The sign went on to say that hundreds of people had been burned and scarred from getting too adventurous.

Well, I must admit it was an effective sign. I had no desire to walk off the boardwalk after that, and I even began questioning the safety of the boardwalk. After all, how do they know some magma hasn't shifted and the whole thing won't collapse in a puff of steam?

But it didn't collapse, and I found myself very intrigued by that weird place. There were pools of clear, almost fluorescent blue water, silently sending billows of steam into the cool evening air, fed by boiling water seeping over the ground and growing fantastic orange thermophile bacterial colonies. I think it would be an excellent setting for a horror story. Pools of steaming water . . . bubbling pits of sulphuric mud . . . the ground opening up into acidic hot springs . . . it reminds me of the Grimpen Mire from "The Hound of the Baskervilles."

......

Mt. Rushmore: Monument or . . . Memorial?

2008-09-07T10:02:00.000-07:00

We visited Mt. Rushmore a couple of days ago. It's really an impressive trip. The road is beautiful as it winds deeper and deeper and higher and higher up into craggy, forested hills. Then, suddenly you round a corner, and there they are - some of our "founding fathers" carved into the side of a massive mountain of granite. What impressed me the most about the faces were the eyes - they are strikingly real, looking out of the the mountain with startling intensity. Washington in particular looks very noble and brave.

As impressed as I was as I stood looking up at those faces in the mountain, something about Mt. Rushmore made me uncomfortable. Is it really American for us to be idolizing Presidents? They are carved up into that hill almost as if they were gods. That's what a lot of monuments remind me of - the old Greek and Roman temples to their gods. Certainly, the men carved into Mt. Rushmore accomplished extraordinary things, but still . . . they were people like you and me, with faults and weaknesses, good days and bad days. If you asked their contemporaries, you might get a very different picture of them than you'll find in the history books.

To spend so much time and money on monuments to great people and great principles is no where nearly as important as working to preserve and uphold the great principles those great people fought for. I'm afraid our country is in grave danger of celebrating principles and freedoms we no longer possess. We build monuments for people who fight for freedom, instead of fighting for it ourselves.

Certainly, it's a lot easier to wave flags and feel proud of ourselves than it is to dig in and fight. We can all feel patriotic when we see the flag and hear the Star-Spangled Banner. But if the freedoms that made this country great are no longer there . . . if the principles we think this country stands for are no longer practiced . . . if the America we're celebrating really doesn't exist . . . then the all the flags, songs and monuments mean . . . nothing.

We really are dishonoring those people and those principles we are trying to honor, because we've completely missed the point. We celebrate the people without looking deeper into what they did, why they did it, and then taking up the fight ourselves. What is the point of monuments to freedom fighters when our country is turning into a dictatorship before our eyes? Don't we have more important work to be doing than building monuments and waving flags?

Mt. Rushmore is in danger of becoming a memorial instead of a monument. A memorial to a Republic that is dying . . . a memorial reminding us of what we once were, and of how much we have lost.

......

For the record . . .

2008-09-06T09:13:00.000-07:00

Well, we have left Minneapolis and are heading West. I'd like to describe our trip, but first let me say a few words about this:

While we are extremely disappointed about the NV unanimous vote for McCain, it isn't as if our fight was in vain. A certain blogger who shall remain nameless here, well known for his caustic, inflammatory blogs (yes, you know who I mean) has tried to intimate that all our work was for nothing. This is not true. Of course, that particular blogger isn't well known among logical people as a truth-teller, so no one should be surprised. But some people might think we have been defeated. So that is the record I would like to set straight.

We were fighting (among other things) for JUSTICE. My Dad said publicly many times that "this isn't about McCain vs. Paul, it's about right vs. wrong." Looking at it from that perspective, we were fighting to get those delegates seated. We did, in the end, get four delegates and three alternates seated. The state GOP was roundly rebuked for their miserable behavior throughout this debacle. The Committee on Contests report said that the state party's delegate selection process was (and I quote):

"[...] flawed, inadequate, and unacceptable.[...] we are deeply troubled by the ineptness of the state party in conducting its process to elect delegates..."

So at least the rest of the world got a whiff of what we have been dealing with.

It is undoubtedly very sad that we worked so hard to get those delegates seated and this happens. One of the delegates didn't come and the other three gave up their votes to let the state party be unanimous for McCain. I have no idea why they did that - you'll have to ask them.

But getting them those seats was a victory, no matter what they did with them.

Nevada is currently on the record as unanimously supporting McCain. If that makes your skin crawl as much as mine, let's be sure and set that record straight come November, shall we?

......

2008-09-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

Last night, I felt like the tiniest gnat clinging to the wall at the Xcel Center in St. Paul, Minnesota. I was sitting way up in the cheap seats, almost to the rafters, looking down on the bright red floor of the Republican National Convention. Sue Lowden's smiling face was beaming from the screen in front of us. She looked very happy. "I'm proud to announce that Nevada unanimously casts all of its thrity-four votes for John McCain!"

I sat there and took notes. The huge convention arena was almost completely empty. As the roll call went from state to state, and state after state lined up behind John McCain, a few scattered cheers rose up occasionally. Empty words echoed through the rows and rows of empty seats.

The forbidden name, "Ron Paul" was actually spoken on the floor, a few times. A tiny handful of states, Alaska, Oregon, Washington, and West Virginia, had a few delegates that managed to get the name of the good Doctor mentioned. But at the end, the chairman recognized a motion to make the vote unanimous for McCain. The motion passed, of course. Almost from the ceiling, a few of us yelled. My Dad objected. I called for quorum. Some Ron Paul people behind us booed. But no one heard us.

It was a strange feeling - almost as if we were in a time warp - as if everything we had done and fought for had disappeared, and no one even noticed. All our effort this past year seems to have disappeared, as if it never happened. The outcome last night was as if . . . we had never done anything at all.

Something went wrong somewhere. It wasn't supposed to end this way.

I remember all the months of work leading up to January 19th. I remember the meetings, the marches, the piles of slim-jims and sticky notes. I remember the call center, full of enthusiastic, intense people. I remember it buzzing with voices. I remember all the pots of coffee we went through. I remember the smiles, the ringing phones, the feeling of urgency that was there. I remember the morning of January 19th. I remember picking out the faces of Ron Paul people in the crowd waiting behind the line, their faces eager, nervous, intense. I saw it all.

I remember the county convention, when we all crowded into a pizza parlor the night before and made phone calls from our cell phones. I remember the weeks of preparation before the state convention, all the phone calls and emails. From there our fight turned into a debacle and we were cheated of our representation.

We fought back. We called the papers and the news. We sent piles of emails. You all know the story. Over three hundred people came all the way back to Reno on their own dime to cast a vote that had been stolen from them. The battle went to the courts and the RNC Committee on Contests. We got only a tiny fraction of our victory with a few delegates seated.

I remember all of that. But . . . will the world remember?

"Nevada unanimously casts all its thirty-four votes for John McCain!"

Something went wrong somewhere. It wasn't supposed to end this way.

Rally for the Republic: Snapshots

2008-09-03T17:21:00.000-07:00

It rained that morning . . . and when it rains here, it pours. The rest of the day was damp and gray and almost chilly. But that didn't matter. The show was inside. The parking garages (there's three of them) come right off the freeway, and then connect to the Target Center via the "Skywalk". The entrance to the Target Center was clogged with Ron Paul people of every description. The line of people led out and down the hall in both directions. There were also people crowded around the street entrances, holding Ron Paul signs for the passing drivers. Almost like the good old days.

......

We all wore our "Don't Gavel Me, Bro!" shirts, which were very conspicuous. When we passed the lines of people, they started cheering. "Go Nevada!" "Yea Nevada!"

It set the tone for the rest of the day. I told the story of our convention and the ensuing debacle at least five times, and I think the same could be said for all our other Nevadans. It was really amazing, and heartwarming to know that there really are a lot of people out there who were watching Nevada and pulling for us. We had people coming up and thanking us. It was awesome. Of course, there was also the temptation to laugh when someone would ask: "So what exactly happened in Nevada?"

I wanted to respond, "Well, have you got three hours?"

Robert suggested making up placards to hand to people so we wouldn't have to be constantly stopping to explain. But it was fun. Everyone was very, very nice. Which is to expected from a bunch of Ron Paul die-hards.

.......

Tucker Carlson started out as the MC for the day. In his opening remarks, he asked the crowd to be welcoming and considerate to all the speakers, noting that libertarian-types can be a bit rowdy. His parents used to take him to Libertarian meetings as a child, and he remembers. Carlson said he recalled one time when the chair attempted to call the meeting to order and someone in the back of the room yelled: "And who made you God?"

......

Aimee Allen's performance was fantastic. She's very high energy, and the crowd really got rocking during her performance. She got encored and came out and sang "Ron Paul Revolution" again, letting the crowd shout "Ron Paul!" in the refrain. It was awesome. I will never forget standing in that crowd of screaming people, the music pounding in my ears and reverberating through me, while I screamed "Ron Paul!" as loud as I could. I'm pretty sure I sustained some permanent hearing loss, but it was well worth it.

......

The Ron Paul came. The crowd was already pumped, and responded to Dr. Paul's appearance with a standing ovation that lasted for at least a few minutes. It was one of his best speeches I have ever heard. He covered all the bases, and the crowd roared and booed on cue, and sometimes whenever they wanted. One popular chant was "End the Fed! End the Fed!"

I was reminded that the "powers that be" have a lot of good reasons to be concerned about the Ron Paul Revolution when I glanced around the stands all surrounding me, packed full of people yelling and pounding the air with their fists in time to "End the Fed! End the Fed!"

......

There was an adorable baby across the row from me. (He reminded me of a certain little person I know named Patrick:). He was amazingly well behaved most of the time, and finally feel asleep in his mother's arms like a little rag doll. He slept through cheering and booing and standing ovations. Aimee Allen woke him up, barely. He halfway opened his eyes to look groggily at the stage and the booming speakers and flashing lights.

......

Dr. Paul Gets His Nevada jacket!

2008-09-03T14:50:00.000-07:00

We got a chance to deliver our Nevadans for Ron Paul present to Dr. Paul yesterday at the end of the Rally for the Republic.

It's a blue and silver windbreaker that has "Nevada is Ron Paul Country" embroidered on it.

We originally bought this jacket for Dr. Paul back in April, but we didn't get a chance to deliver it until we drove it all the way to Minneapolis!

Thanks to Dr. Paul's press secretary, Jesse Benton, for getting us the opportunity to present this to Dr. Paul.

Because Nevada IS Ron Paul country!!

Much Ado About . . . Seating Arrangements?!?!?

2008-09-03T11:04:00.000-07:00

More evidence of our state party's INEPTNESS:

Nevada is apparently the only delegation at the RNC that assigns seating arrangements (using little name placards). It appears to be a silly ploy to keep our guys from sitting with each other, because no one else follows the arrangements . . . but Anjeanette Damon saw what happened when Carl Bunce dared to challenge the seat placard nonsense:

Click Here for A. Damon's Blog

Everyone musth sthay in their stheat, pleasth.

Come on, people, this is getting ridiculous.

......

Be sure and check out the video blog being put together by our Delegates of their experiences at the RNC here in Minnesota.

Minnesota Video Blog

Have you seen the NV Observer?

2008-09-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

The Nevada Observer is an interesting monthly publication. They have obviously been following the story of our Nevada debacle . . . this is a link to the September edition. Our story is nicely encapsulated under the headline (you might have to scroll down):

"GOP Graybeards Get Their Way from RNC - Young Turks Will Get Some Recognition".

http://www.nevadaobserver.com/TNO%20Transfer%20Folder%20080901/gop_graybeards_get_their_way.htm

Go get 'em, all you Young Turks!

The Revolution in MN

2008-08-31T22:51:00.000-07:00

Well, it has been brought to my attention that people are actually reading this blog. Therefore, I will try to make a little more effort to blog . . . Stuff.

So, yes, the Ron Paul Revolution is gearing up here in Minneapolis/St. Paul. I actually think that this was an excellent place to hold the Rally for the Republic: there seem to be A LOT of Ron Paul supporters indigenous to this area. Ron Paul bumper stickers are not too uncommon (and becoming more common as September 2nd approaches); we've also gotten a number of friendly smiles, thumbs-ups and peace signs when we wear our RP gear.

That is, the Twin Cities may be the next best spot after a Nevada location, of course. Some people may say I'm biased in that view, but allow me to quote Time magazine:

"If the freedom that lives in the Libertarian imagination has an earthly home, it is the American West. If it has a temple, it's Nevada . . ."

(I love that quote. I think I'm going to have to work it in wherever I can.)

I would also like to congratulate the Ron Paul delegates from Nevada who are OFFICIALLY SEATED. (Yes, it's true, some of them have even gotten their credentials, I saw them myself). . .

Delegates: Chris Dyer, Carl Bunce, Arden Osbourne, and soon-to-arrive alternates LisaMarie Johnson and Dan May.

Congratulations all, your dedication to the cause is awesome!!!

......

We walked around St. Paul yesterday evening. The air was balmy and close, and the security was moving into the city everywhere. Streets were shut down and helicopters were patrolling low over the buildings. We saw lines of police cars, as well as unmarked vehicles loaded down with uniformed officers. There were also a lot of serious looking guys in suits with earpieces watching the pedestrians.

Businesses along the main walkways have put up red, white, and blue bunting, and there are lots of elephants and American flags all over the place. They make a strange, sad backdrop for yellow security tape and troops of police officers.

Minneapolis Snapshots

2008-08-29T21:55:00.000-07:00

There's a billboard right as you get on the freeway coming out of the airport that says: "Welcome, Rich, White Oligarchs!" Paid for by the Daily Show, of Comedy Central. I thought it was funny. I wonder how many RNC delegates will?

......

The Mall of America is a really big mall, the kind of place where you can wander around all day and not even see half of it. And if you seriously want to shop, you'll see even less. Other than it's size, it's pretty much like any other mall. There are a few notable things that were actually quite impressive . . . the amusement park in the middle of the mall has some pretty good rides. Also worth the visit: the shark exhibit in the basement was not cheap, but we really enjoyed it. If you love to shop, this is a great city for you - there are stores all over the place.

......

The light rail goes all around down town. It's good for getting places, but give yourself lots of time . . . it is SLOW. From the Mall of America to Nicollet Ave. (where you'll get off for the RP rally) takes 40 minutes.

......

The walk up Nicollet Ave is fun. You'll go by a statue of Mary Tyler Moore throwing her beret. You'll also pass lots of trendy open air restaurants and more shops (of course!). The buildings are an interesting mix of old and new architecture . . .

......

The people here are VERY friendly. When we asked one girl for directions, she walked at least a complete block with us out of her way to give us detailed directions. One of our party left a bag on the light rail train . . . and the guy next to us got off with his bike, and rode after us at least four blocks to return it. We almost couldn't believe it.

......

The Minnesota State Fair is absolutely massive, with almost every type of food available that you can imagine. Not to mention miles of livestock events (and I mean literally miles), horticulture exhibits, agriculture exhibits and two midways. They have fireworks to round off the night, too. When we were there a lightning storm was in progress at the same time as the fireworks; it added to the effect. Then it poured buckets of rain . . . on the bus on the way back, the water was coming in the windows and running down the aisle. Plus there a lot of drunks on the bus who almost got in a fight.

That was a bus ride I will not soon forget.

PR: RNC Labels NV Party “Inept”, but Seats Most of State-Appointed Delegation

2008-08-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

MINNEAPOLIS, 8/28/08 – The RNC’s Committtee on Contests handed down a recommendation yesterday regarding the ongoing Nevada delegate debacle. The Committee condemned the State Party’s handling of the delegate selection process, and declined the State Party’s ability to appoint delegates. However, the Committee then recommended seating the majority of the State Party’s appointed slate, as well as six delegates elected in CD 1 and CD 3 at the April 26th State Convention.

“We definitely do not consider this a just resolution,” said Wayne Terhune, a Nevada Republican activist who traveled to Minneapolis to support the appeal. “Despite some strong language from the Committee, their actions have backed up the illegal delegate appointment of the State Party.”

The Committee on Contests held a hearing on Sunday, August 24th when they heard statements from both sides. The Committee’s statement released on Wednesday called the Nevada GOP’s handling of the delegate selection process “flawed, inadequate, and unacceptable,” adding that they were “deeply troubled by the ineptness of the State Party in conducting its process to elect delegates […].”

“This game seems to have been fixed from the start,” Terhune said. “It was obvious to everyone at the Committee’s hearing that the State Party was inept, but the Committtee decided to back them up anyway and seat the majority of their slate. This is a miscarriage of justice, and smacks of tyranny. All the Republican voters of Nevada have been disenfranchised.”

####

NEWS: RNC Throws Justice Under the Bus

2008-08-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

It could have been worse, but still, it wasn't pretty:

The RNC Committee on Contests released their ruling a few minutes ago. They have seated the majority of the delegation appointed by the State GOP. They have also seated those people elected at the CD 1 and CD3 elections in April. The RNC first took away the State GOP's ability to appoint delegates, saying the State GOP was "inept" . . . but then they turned around and seated the majority of the State GOP's delegation, with exception of CD 1 and CD 3.

So in the end, that works out to about 4 RP people.

Despite the fact that we proved - beyond any doubt - that the State GOP's handling of the entire convention was an atrocious farce; despite the fact that we proved that our slate was elected by 300 people legally instead of being appointed by 12 illegally; despite our appeal to the integrity and justice of the committee; the committee sided with the actions of the State Party. They said some rebuking things about the actions of the State GOP, but again, actions speak louder than words. They also maneuvered the decision so any further appeal is a technical violation.

One member of the Committee on Contests appears to have some integrity: he quit and refused to be a part of the Committee's recommendation.

We know this decision came down from the McCain camp via the RNC.

The Republican Party has again chosen corruption.

NEWS:

2008-08-26T09:17:00.000-07:00

Negotiations continuing . . . perceived outcome looks dim.

If anything breaks, I'll post it ASAP.

The Little Pup That Could . . .

2008-08-26T08:50:00.000-07:00

I hope I'm this brave if three bears ever wander into my yard:

"Feisty pup takes no guff from 3 bears."

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2008138345_puppy26.html

Word of the Day

2008-08-25T23:21:00.000-07:00

. . . what we've had to do since we came to Minnesota . . .

"attimatize (verb): to adjust to a new time zone."

Source: Merriam-Webster's Open Dictionary. wwwe.merriam-webster.com/opendictionary/

Contest Committee News

2008-08-24T19:16:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm exhausted, so here's the quick update:

Mike Weber faced off with the NV GOP attorneys today at the Contest Committee. It started at 10 am and didn't finish until almost 4 pm.

There was no decision announced. We probably won't know more until Thursday.

So how did it go? Of course, I wouldn't want to be overly optimistic about anything at this point, but our presentation went REALLY well. Mike did an excellent, excellent job.

The Party, despite their high-powered Washington DC attorneys, did not look quite so well . . . and I think that's all I'll say in a public forum like this at this time.

Right now, we all have to stay tuned for anything definitive . . .

Latest News

2008-08-23T14:45:00.001-07:00

Well, this is it, folks: We will be appearing before the RNC Committee on Contests tomorrow morning . . .

That's Sunday, August 24, at 10 am CST at the Hyatt Regency, which is the RNC HQ.

I'll do my best to keep you updated.

The End of the Journey!

2008-08-23T14:24:00.000-07:00

Iowa took us through more cornfields, stretching from the road and away over the rolling fields. We stopped for dinner in Ames. The air was clammy and seemed to cling to my skin the moment I stepped out of the car. Bugs congregated around the streetlights in the heavy air. Even so, it was a pleasant night once I got used to the steaminess. Iowa seems to be green everywhere.

We got into Minnesota late; so late, actually, that it was early. There really does seem to be water everywhere, here in the land of 10,000 lakes. It's a lot cooler here. I was actually cold when we unloaded our car. The land here is flat and green - trees everywhere. It reminds me of Seattle in that its hard to see the entire city at once because of all the trees.

We slept in late and now we have to be up and doing . . .

Observations Eastward

2008-08-22T10:08:00.000-07:00

Now, I'm writing up these observations of our eastward journey mostly because I have fun trying to describe what I see. The great thing about a blog is that no one is under any obligation to read this at all. It's entirely a matter of free choice.

The journey east to Elko wasn't too exciting, probably because I've done it so often lately. So I'll move on and describe points of interest farther east.

UTAH: Looks a lot like Nevada, at first. We saw the salt flats, which kind of look like the Black Rock desert, only whiter and bigger. White and flat, stretching out as far as the eye can see in some places. We saw a collection of buildings with a massive pile of what looked like sparkling white dust. It was - you guessed it - salt! The building said "Morton Salt", and there was a big picture of the girl with the umbrella on one of the buildings. There was more water there than I expected to see, collected in the low-lying areas into wide shining ponds, some with fence posts stepping right through the water. I saw one such little lake that was big enough to mirror the mountains and the blue sky in the still water. It was beautiful.

Then we saw the Great Salt Lake. It was . . . big and . . . salty, from what I could see. There were sailboats out on the water, but no motorboats. Too salty for motors, perhaps. BTW, that's one thing about this blog, you realize . . . I'm typing about stuff I very possibly have no idea about, so I might show my ignorance in numerous ways (no jokes please). My speculations about what I see might be good or they might be crummy, but that's not going to stop me from posting them.

So then on to Salt Lake City. We drove right through it without stopping, so I didn't see much of it. I did see some interesting old houses lining the Interstate. I infer that they were old from their location as well as the huge, beautiful trees that surrounded them. Most of them had very high, peaked gables but no eaves - interesting combination.

The mountains east of Salt Lake were magnificent . . . I-80 seemed small as it wound through the tall wooded hillsides that rose up and up into craggy, towering peaks that shut out the sky. We drove by Park City, where they had some of the Olympic Games. You could tell Park City was a skiing community, with woods and alpine style structures- sans snow, of course.

WYOMING: I didn't get to see a lot of Wyoming because it was getting dark by this time. We saw some rock formations called "towers". They are tall, round, and solid rock, rising up into unique, twisted formations. We saw a Hampton Inn (still under construction) that had two massive formations "towering" over it. They'll have a cool picture for a travel brochure.

The land starts getting progressively flatter as you head farther East. Wyoming is a lot of grassland that rolls and plateaus.

NEBRASKA: The same rolls and plateaus as Wyoming . . . occasional rocky bluffs cropping up above the green rolling countryside into buttes. We passed one big rocky butte that had three crosses standing on top, lonely and solemn in the blazing sun. There's a lot of livestock grazing, and drinking water from wells powered by wind mills.

We saw the Cabela's world HQ!! I got some pics but we can't stop. We're in a hurry to get to Minnesota . . .

The father east we go, the more cornfields we see . . . corn stretching away as far as the eye can see, with an occasional tree or farmhouse cropping up like an island in the sea of golden brown tassels. The scenery here is very friendly. Certainly there is none of the drama of the desert here; no mountain crags or parched, cracked desert sands. The fields of corn alternate with green, grassy fields surrounded with trees that shade grazing livestock. Prosperous looking farmsteads with trim barns and silos dot the landscape, and the wide sky is softly blue. The horizon is flat so the sky seems very large, with clouds that stretch out and away into the hazy distance.

2008-08-22T09:14:00.000-07:00

Cheyenne, Wyoming 9:55 MST

Here we are in a hotel room in Cheyenne, Wyoming. We can't see much of Wyoming from the window. From here, it looks dusty and hot and flat. There is a roll to the hills around, but no mountains worth the name.

The railroad is outside our window, and we can hear the trains rumbling and whistling as they roar by. Mom is reading me details about Wyoming's history out of a travel pamphlet as I sit here and type.

Today we are going to head East through Nebraska and Iowa, then North up to Minnesota and Minneapolis.

No news yet about the contest committee . . .

We have to get on the road now, so . . .

Minneapolis or bust!!